


The Lost Lion

by WendyNerd



Series: Trials and Tricks [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcoholism, Babies, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Friendship, Jealousy, Legal issues, PTSD, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, References to Childhood Sexual Abuse, Sequel, Trials and Tricks fic, Tyrion has issues, Tyrion kind of comes back from the dead, mental trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 112,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3577413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After seventeen years of being thought dead, after seventeen years of having lost his identity, Tyrion Lannister returns to Westeros to find that the world he'd known has seemingly past him by. Broken physically and psychologically, he grasps at what shreds of identity he may have had in the worst way. Those surrounding him, meanwhile, deal with the massive fallout--- personal, psychological, and political---- of his return.</p><p>A sequel to Trials and Tricks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lost Lion Returns

**Author's Note:**

> First: Thanks to my beta, Bluecichlid!
> 
> Hey guys! Here it is: the Trials and Trick sequel. This story features a LOT of Tyrion---- and not fun, happy Tyrion. This interpretation is very heavily based on his state of mind in A Dance With Dragons. There's a LOT of angst and bad behavior on his part in this. Lots of anger, jealousy, mental scarring, and trauma. I DO ask that anyone who might be put off by this portrayal to give it time. This IS a story of a very traumatized, mentally scarred man who has been through Hell reacting to being passed by in life and having suffered tons of abuse. There is a LOT of anger and resentment that shall come out. But also sympathy.
> 
> Also, if you've read any of my Trials and Tricks oneshots on tumblr, just know that I aged down one of the kids.
> 
> And to anyone waiting on Papa--- that's on hiatus for now. I'm sorry, but I've been swamped and had an inspiration block on it.

_Shall I be eaten?_ That was what crossed Tyrion Lannister’s mind as he approached the gate to Casterly Rock.

In his haze, the Lion’s Mouth truly seemed to live up to its name. It loomed over him, more than it seemed to even when he was a child. He resented the gate for this. As much as he resented the gleeful, springtime revelers gathering in Lannisport below.

Although it had been twenty years since he’d last seen the Rock, he felt like he’d stepped back in time to when he was just a small boy, barred from attending his father’s grand tournament for the royal family.

His anger overwhelmed his fear and thus Tyrion Lannister arrived shouting his name and declaring his identity. His cousin Martyn, now grown up, and dressed in formal, festive velvets was brought out. Tyrion looked his cousin in the eye and said, “Green velvet always did look better on you.”

Martyn paled, and looked lost for words.

When his cousin had been a lad of ten, Tyrion had caught him wearing a cast off gown of Cersei’s. The lad had been twirling around in the green velvet in front of the mirror.  When Martyn saw  Tyrion’s reflection behind him, he crumpled to the ground and started crying. The dwarf had walked over, put a hand on his shoulder, and promised he’d never breathe a word of it to anyone. He kept that promise.

Now he sat in the very same chair where he used to take his meals, with his childhood friends the small painted lions. The same small painted lions that now seemed to regard him with the same fear and hate as his sister once did. 

He’d known this room as a child. It was a private breakfast room deep within the Rock, not far from the nursery. Tyrion often took meals here as a boy, always with his nurse or Maester, frequently with his brother, more rarely with his sister, and never with his father.

On the rare occasions when child-aged Tyrion did dine with the Lord of Casterly Rock, it was in the loosest sense of the word “with”. He’d be sat at the end of the enormous table in the Great Hall on only the most special occasions, seated so far down so his Father didn’t have to look at him beyond one brief presentation at the beginning of the banquet. The room was filled with enormous lion sculptures that terrified him. His siblings almost always sat by Lord Tywin: Jaime to his immediate right, then Cersei next to Jaime. Sometimes, Jaime would come visit him briefly before Cersei, wrinkling her nose, would drag her twin back.

Tyrion always preferred this room. There were numerous roaring lions painted on the walls, and when he was very small, he would pretend to be one, catching and tearing the food on his plate apart with his sharp jaws like prey. Even then, he knew his family words: “Hear Me Roar!” As a child, he much preferred that to the better known saying regarding Lannisters. 

When he had to sit at the end of the big table, being ignored, he would hope and pray that some day, he’d be able to roar loud enough to be heard and noticed, acknowledged as a true lion like Jaime and Cersei. _Even if I never grow big, I could learn to shake the whole rock with my voice. And I will be good enough. It won’t matter how small or ugly I am. I still have a voice, and I shall roar._

In the small room, the paintings of the lions were small enough that he didn’t have to worry about being big. They still appeared to be roaring fiercely enough, and Tyrion liked that. _Small lions can still roar._

Later, when he realized it wouldn’t matter how much he tried to roar, he came to appreciate the line about paying one’s debts far more. The glint of gold was when people actually paid attention and started showing him some of the same respect and regard that they showed his siblings, his father, his uncles or his cousins.

Despite the false hopes they gave him, though, Tyrion still considered the small lions of this room his friends. This was the room, and these were the golden beasts that always welcomed him. As he got older, he comforted himself that theirs were roars of welcome. He could always eat here. 

But now, even the paintings on these walls seemed to view him as an enemy. They were snarling at him with angry, hateful eyes. Tyrion sat at the small table, his sister, brother, father, nurse, and master all gone, and he knew he wasn’t welcome. He never was.

The room in his youth was always well-lit, despite the lack of windows. Numerous sconces and the small fireplace off to the side always flaming. And the chamber was always clean and warm. Now, the paint was peeling, only a couple of the wicks were lit, and the fireplace was empty.

The younger son of Tywin Lannister couldn’t hear it now, but he knew outside there were shouts of revelry. He’d heard it earlier, before he was ushered into the deep recesses of the Rock like a dirty secret. There were singers singing, mummers reciting lines, happy chatter, the roar of fire balls thrown by jugglers and entertainers. Silken banners of all manner of colors were strewn about, red being the most prominent. Dragons were amongst the lions in the gardens. Tables with hundreds of guests filling themselves with piles of delicacies and gallons of wine were assembled all over.

When he was young and still believed he could roar loud enough, his father had hosted King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar for a tourney much like this one to celebrate the birth of Prince Viserys. Cersei had spent weeks chattering about it in excitement, anticipating the time when she would finally meet her beloved dragon prince. She’d been nervous, afraid she’d not be pretty enough. Their Aunt Genna assured Cersei she would be. But the girl feared Rhaegar wouldn’t like her since she had yet to grow teats.

Tyrion made the mistake of giggling when he heard this. Cersei begged her aunt to make sure that Tyrion wouldn’t come. “He’s an ugly monster who will scare away my prince!”

Later that day, after Cersei went out on a walk with her friends Jeyne and Melara, chatting about seeing a wise-woman. When Cersei returned, she turned a disgusted look upon her youngest brother, then went to Lord Tywin directly to beg that Tyrion not be allowed to show his face at the tourney. Lord Tywin’s reply was swift.

“Your brother was never going to be allowed anywhere near the celebrations. Are you really such a fool to believe I’d allow such a thing to happen? Work on your instincts, Girl, the prince won’t like a fool.” 

Tyrion was allowed to look out the windows of his nursery down upon the blaring lights of Lannisport. He did look, until he could take it no longer. He ran off to the small lions on the walls and roared as loud as he could.

The only consolation was that Cersei returned in tears, screaming and railing at her father for destroying her life and denying her the Silver Prince. “You’re as much a monster as Tyrion!”

Lord Tywin slapped his red-faced daughter and had her confined to her rooms for a week. 

 _She was right._ Tyrion thought with a small smile.

 _My sister is very dead,_ he told the lions silently, _she came to a very bad end. Your paint is already fading and peeling, so don’t tempt me to worsen your situation._

 _Perhaps they resent me for allowing them to fall into this state,_ he thought wildly, _I’m sorry, little lions. If I’d been Lord of Casterly Rock, this wouldn’t have happened._

Tyrion rubbed his eyes. _Yes, I’m definitely mad._ He’d been locked away a few times over the years as he wandered in a drunken stupor from one region in Essos to the next. Sometimes, he forgot that he wasn’t actually Hugor Hill.

He forgot that a lot, actually. In fact, until a few moons ago, when he came upon a small body that had once been Penny, he had been Hugor Hill for all but what he thought were mere dreams of being the son of a rich lord in the west.

Tyrion heaved himself off the chair and went over to the small fireplace. There were a few logs there, and some kindling and flint. He tried to make a fire. But he was too frail to even properly heave all the logs into the pit. At some point over the last twenty-two years, he’d done irreparable damage to his right hip and shoulder so they pained him horribly if he put too much pressure on them. Battle wounds from Slaver’s Bay.

After a humiliating attempt to load the logs, the dwarf was curled up on the ground, panting and clutching his horribly pained shoulder, tears running down his disfigured face. The ground beneath him was cold. He could feel the stone against his bare cheek and through the thin, patched clothes he wore.

 _They could have at least given me some wine,_ he thought bitterly. _Damn it, Martyn, I never told a soul. I pitied you. If it had been Lancel that found you, you’d have been whipped and locked away. You’d have gotten a taste of what it was like to be me. Instead, you’re Lord of Casterly Rock now. At least officially._

Tyrion wondered vaguely how many green velvet dresses Martyn had purchased for himself over the years with Lord Tywin’s gold. _With my gold._

Everyone always seemed to enjoy the bounty of Casterly Rock more than he ever got to. 

 _The Dragon Queen likely enjoys it now._ He wondered if Daenerys Targaryen knew that her first taste of Lannister service was from him, when he went to fight for her in Yunkai. Did she ever learn who Tyrion Lannister was?

It bothered him how little he knew of what was happening in Westeros. His memory and wits were not what they once were. He couldn’t bear to stay sober. The hip hurt so much more when he was sober. Once, he’d known everything that was happening despite how much he drank. _I was the most knowledgeable, savvy, clever man in Westeros._

Now… what did he know? Daenerys Targaryen was queen. She’d stabilized Slaver’s Bay, and took her dragons west. She fought a scourge of Others. Now she sat on the throne and the realm was at peace. She had no husband or children, but she had an heir in her nephew, the prince, the long-lost son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who fought at her side against the Night’s King. Cersei was dead, as was Jaime. Martyn held Casterly Rock. The wars were over, the realm was beginning to prosper again in the new summer. Everyone was happy but him.

He was amazed that Aegon had given in to taking second place so easily. But then, Tyrion imagined that it was hard to argue with dragons. Maybe he didn’t get the top spot, but home was still home.

 _Am I willing to step aside for Martyn?_ He imagined he had about as much choice as Aegon, despite his cousin’s lack of dragons. _Why hasn’t the blasted fool killed me yet?_

Maybe he was to be left here to die. It didn’t make much sense. _Make it quick for me, at least._

He wondered why he’d even come back. It was miraculous that Martyn was even willing to recognize him. _But what did I expect?_

Tyrion had no idea. He shouldn’t have come here. He should have tried to find Tysha. _I should have tried to find our little inn where we consummated our little marriage. I should have found out where you went. I’m so sorry._

He managed to get to his uneven feet. A cry escaped his lips as he pushed open the door, putting an awful strain on his shoulder. It wasn’t worth it. When he did get out of the room, it was only to fall to the ground in an empty hall. He fell on the hip hard and screamed.

Tyrion curled up again in pain. _Damn. Damn._ He felt a small, warm hand upon his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” A soft, feminine voice said. Tyrion looked up. That face. It was familiar to him. It was young, pretty, with kind eyes. Framed by dark hair. _Beautiful. I know that face._

“Tysha!” He cried, reaching up and grabbing for her. She screamed, and Tyrion felt that old anger rise. _Monster. Imp. Half-man. Dwarf._

There was an awful blow to his stomach that had him skidding across the ground. Running. Regular footsteps, and clanging ones from guards.

“What happened?!” Another feminine voice, this one also familiar. Then male voices.

“My Lady! Is something wrong?”

Tyrion lifted his head and groaned. Metal hands grabbed him.

“Did he hurt you, Sweetling?" 

“No… I think I hurt him though. He was hurting and I went up to him. He scared me. Put him down!”

Tyrion was settled unsteadily on his feet. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. Two women, no… One woman, one girl. The girl was dressed in white silk, trimmed in violet. Her face was so familiar… why couldn’t he place it? Was it Tysha’s?

He looked at the woman, gowned in red and silver. She clutched her face, so he couldn’t make it out. Her hair was red.

His sight wasn’t too good these days.

“It… It can’t…. Has Lord Lannister been informed?” The woman asked sharply.

“He knows.”

“But… How…?”

“No one knows.”

The woman came closer. She bent over, looking at him with utter bewilderment. “L-Lord Tyrion?” 

“Tyrion Lannister is dead.” The girl said.

“You’re likely right,” the dwarf called over to her, “I’m not even sure anymore.” 

“Put him in some decent guest quarters, clean him up, feed him, help him, for pity’s sake!”

“Lord Lannister---“

The woman's voice cracked like a whip. “Lord Lannister isn’t here. Now do as I say!” 

He was dropped in a tub of lukewarm water and scrubbed. He was given a flagon of ale, some bread and hard cheese. He was shown a small, warm bed in a small room. No lions.

Tyrion slept, and wasn’t sure how long he did. But when he woke, a servant came with a set of wool clothing that looked like it was made for someone else. _Probably a child._

He put it on regardless, and was led back to the damn breakfast room. A tray of eggs and kippers waited for him. No one was there. He sat and began to eat.

The door opened and a head poked in. A girl of about twelve, on the cusp of maidenhood, with pale skin, dark curls, and a pretty face that looked so damn familiar. _But not Tysha. Couldn’t be. Who then?_

The child stared at him for a second before coming in completely. She wore a russet kirtle, and curtsied. “Forgive me, but… Are you really Tyrion Lannister?”

“I was, once,” he told her sadly. “Who are you, My Lady?”

“My name is Naerys.”

“Naerys? For the queen who loved the dragon knight?” He swallowed a mouth full of egg. 

“Sort of.” Naerys shifted her weight and cracked her knuckles awkwardly. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Actually, my real name is Daenerys, but I’m called Naerys for short. So I’m named for her and for---“

“Our illustrious queen, yes.”

“I have a brother named Aemon.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “I imagine Valyrian names must have come back into fashion.” 

Naerys glanced at the ground. “May… May I ask you a question?”

He sighed. “No, I did not kill Joffrey. But I did kill my father.”

“No! Everyone knows that! I was wondering about the chain. At the battle of Blackwater? How did you… How did you think of it? And the widlfire? Where did you get it? They say you found the old stores of the Mad King but…”

Tyrion cocked his head. “You know about the chain and the wildfire? And you know about me?”

“Of course. I’ve read and heard all about it. But no one knows where you got the fire or how you came up with the chain. I’ve always wondered. I’ve read at least three books on it, but they never explained it.”

Tyrion began to shake. “Books?” 

“Yes. Sarella Sand’s Historie of the Brief Reign of Lions, Maester Samwell’s War of the Five Kings, and Lord Davos Seaworth’s Memoirs. I’ve read those. I’m still making my way through ‘When the Long Summer Ended’ by Maester Merys, but I’m working on it.”

“You read quite a bit for someone so young.”

Naerys shrugged. “My father says that the mind is a weapon, and that it needs a book like a sword needs a whetstone. It’s funny, because he’s not a great reader, but he is very smart. My mother reads more, though.” 

Everything about this child disturbed him. She was so painfully familiar. But all the things that seemed to remind him of something or someone for some reason didn’t gel together. He couldn’t place any of it.

“Have we met before, child?”

“Last night. You called me Tysha. By the way, who was she? I’ve never heard of ‘House Silverfist’.”

 _Lady Tysha of House Silverfist. Their sigil is a single gold coin amidst fifty silver ones clutched in a hand upon a bloody sheet._ He’d made that claim to someone once. But…

The door opened again. A boy, red of hair and once again, horribly familiar, ran in. “Naerys! We’re not supposed to talk to him!”

Tyrion knew the lad suddenly. “BRAN STARK?!” 

The boy looked at him with wide, blue eyes. “What? No… I’m Robb. Brandon’s only eight.”

“He was when I… But… He couldn’t walk…” His head hurt. He clutched it. “What is happening?”

“Come on, Naerys,” the lad said nervously. “Mama said…”

“You always do what Mama says. Look at him! He’s in pain!”

“I know, but we can’t help him. And Aunt Arya says that when you talk to the wrong people, it can get people hurt. We need to go.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Tyrion.” And the children left.

_What is happening? What is happening?_

Martyn came to him an hour later, when Tyrion had his face buried in his arms. The dwarf looked up at the new, young Lord of Casterly Rock.

“Cousin Tyrion, I---- I’m sorry about the accommodations last night. You caught me off guard and I had to attend the tournament and--- I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to--- But the bedchamber you were shown to… It was comfortable?”

Tyrion’s eyes widened. _Are you bloody kidding me?_ With that, he began to laugh so hard his belly hurt.

~_~_~_~_~

The next day Tyrion sat upon the small table provided for him, ingesting salad, venison sausage, and cider. The cider annoyed him. No spirits.

As a point of pride, he made sure to remember his old, more lordly table manners. In Essos, he had to eat like a slave: quickly, desperately, messily before someone bigger and meaner came to steal what gruel he could get his hands on.

The room was small but well-furnished, and when Tyrion sat down to eat, the two maids that brought in his breakfast remade the bed. He kept glancing at it longingly now. The only beds he got to sleep in for so long were the ones in brothels, when he could afford it. That was rare.

Tyrion found himself alone again quickly enough once the maids had placed a set of green wool clothes on the bed. Once they were gone, he changed and resumed his meal.

He received a visit soon after changing clothes. A woman came in, but not a maid, judging by her posture and the way her blue eyes met his head on. She was tall, extremely tall for a woman, with fair, soft skin, pouting lips, high cheekbones, and gleaming red hair. She wore a green wool dress with layered skirts and a high waist, which only emphasized the fullness of her bosom. Tyrion found himself disappointed with the level of her v-shaped neckline. Only a bit of bare collarbone was visible from his height.

The twitch in his cock was followed by a chill. There was something about this woman.  _No… It can’t be Lady Stark._  And it hit him.  _Twenty years have passed, you fool._

Tyrion smirked at her. Her breathing got deeper, and she flinched slightly. He found himself simultaneously angered and aroused, not an uncommon state for him.

“Hello, Little Wife.”

She  took a measured breath. “Hello, Lord Tyrion. Where have you been for the last twenty years?”

“Essos. Here and there in Essos. And you?”

“Here and there in Westeros. But honestly, My Lord…” Her eyes narrowed and she sat down. Tyrion raised his head, eager to get a better glimpse of her chest. He was distracted when she said, “Everyone thought you dead.”

“I’m sorry to ruin your fun,” he replied with a bit of bitterness.  _Cersei would be so disappointed. This one apparently is._  “It must be inconvenient to you to see me alive. And even more hideous than ever. All while you’ve grown ever lovelier. Not a child anymore, I see.”

He leered a bit, looking again. She leaned back then, tugging at her neckline nervously. Tyrion found himself simultaneously finding delight and misery in her obvious discomfort.   _I’m not even naked now, and already she looks ill._

“Come now, My Lady. Don’t make that face. You’ve grown to be such a lovely sight. No need to spoil it with a grimace, repulsive as I may be. You don’t need to follow suit.”

“No… My Lord. You’re not—-“

“Oh come now, stop lying!” Tyrion said, suddenly furious.  _False. False. All my women. Shae, Sansa… All but Tysha._  “You used to be at least better at it than that! Smile at least. Once, it pleased you to please your lord husband, remember? Would it please you to please me now? You’ve grown the body for it, certainly. Even more than you had before.”

He gestured to the big bed behind him. “Last time we were alone in a bedroom together, you offered to strip three times before I allowed it. Where is that generosity now? Especially when you have so much more to show…”

She put her hand to her mouth. Tyrion smirked. He wanted her humiliated. _Just like you humiliated me. Let’s see how well those stiff Stark knees and stiff Stark pride suits you now._  If he was truly that repulsive to her, she would suffer for it.  _I’ve suffered for it._

“Don’t have anything to say? Come now, you can give me some of your sweet little courtesies. Maybe after, we can pick up where we left off.”

His wife doubled over, her shoulders shaking. Tyrion found this enchanting.  _If only she were Cersei._  It would be even funnier, and it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“What would you do if I kissed you now? If I commanded you to share my bed? I used to wonder all the time---”

Sansa grabbed the plate from him and heaved. A chunky liquid poured out of her pretty little mouth.

Tyrion stared, astonished, and then furious.  _Women have found me repulsive all my life, but never so much as to vomit at the sight of me._

He forced himself to smile, as though her reaction gave him nothing but satisfaction.  “Well then, you’ve made me lose my lunch,” he mocked. “Now we’re even. I must say with all that mess running down your chin, you’re almost half as disgusting as me.”

Sansa glared up at him and wiped her mouth. “It’s not you, you—-“

She put her hand on her belly and it was only then Tyrion noticed the small bump.

He fell back, eyes wide. He felt like his insides had disappeared. Shame flooded through him. “My Lady I—“

Sansa grabbed his cup and downed its contents. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

 _I do now._ “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize---“

“Enough. I’ve heard worse. I was more offended by the way you grabbed my daughter last night. Do not do it again.” Another chill went down his spine, and he saw it. _Yes, there it is... The cheekbones, the pout… She hadn’t looked like Tysha. She looked like another._

“I thought she was someone else,” he said hastily. He did feel bad about that. His stomach did, especially. “More apologies. She seems to be a fine child. Strong legs.”

“She is a fine child.”

“I’m sure.” Tyrion frowned. _I might have given you fine children. Ones with my wits and your looks._ “Which is also probably why you’re as pleased as anyone else to see me.” He cocked his head. “Tell me, why hasn’t anyone tried to kill me yet?” 

“What?” Sansa’s eyes widened. 

“Last time I was in Westeros, everyone and everything seemed determined to see me dead. Your Mother, my father, my sister, my nephew, my whores… whoever killed Joffrey… For nothing more than the crimes of being a Lannister and a dwarf.” He ground his teeth at that. No matter how many years had passed, the wounds of that seemed ever-fresh. “Now, I come back, a threat to my cousin Martyn’s current title and a threat to your own children’s legitimacy, and not once has anyone tried to swing an axe into my face, or a sword through my neck, or slip poison into my wine. The worst I’ve gotten is a little girl kicking me in the stomach.”

“You are not a threat to my children’s legitimacy,” she said firmly.  “I married their father six years after you disappeared, four years after you officially died. In times of peace, a woman can remarry if her husband has been missing for five years. It becomes three in times of war. My apologies, Lord Tyrion, but I am not your wife in the eyes of gods or men.”

He sneered. “I bet you researched that the moment you got away from me. Must have been quite the kick in the teeth that you had to wait that long.” 

“It angered Petyr Baelish something fierce.” She glanced at her hands, eyes holding the spark of a new, unpleasant revelation. “A former slave master from Yunkai delivered the corpse of a nose-less, white-haired dwarf with mismatched eyes to Queen Cersei. She declared that body her cursed brother, dead at last, and gave the man a lordship. Conveniently enough, this happened soon after I was formally betrothed to Harrold Hardyng.”

Her hands began to shake and Tyrion glanced at his lap. He remembered Penny’s brother. _He died to be delivered to my sister as well._

His former wife continued, her voice sounding more contrite. “I always believed you were truly killed.” She sighed and cupped her temple. “It is clear to me now that that isn’t the case.”

“So this Hardyng sap is my replacement then?” 

“Not… Not exactly. I mean, I married him, but he’s long dead.” She pursed her lips again. Tyrion’s stomach sank. _As I thought._ Some of the anger returned. 

“Where’s Martyn?” Tyrion asked impatiently. His cousin had promised to come back and discuss ‘matters’ with him in the morning. _Perhaps the matter of his marital situation might have come up before now._ “Why am I speaking to you?”

Sansa looked up again. “Lord Lannister is speaking to his maester and steward. He’s worried about you, but he’s embarrassed. I told him off for leaving you in the castle as he did. He’s trying to find you some more suitable accommodations now.” 

 “So, Martyn listens to you, does he?” 

“Lord Martyn listens to a great deal of people. He honestly feels awful. When you arrived, he was just due to welcome the royal family to Lannisport and give a great presentation. He wasn’t sure what to do. He asked me to speak to you.”

Tyrion’s jaw clenched. _It seems my cousin has everything that should have been mine._ “You must be quite relieved to be wed to me no longer.”

“I am. But then, is it that surprising that I would be?” She blinked.

“Of course not. And why should a woman like you have been happy to wed a dwarf? Even as old as you’ve gotten, you’re still a pretty face. Whereas I was hideous from the beginning.”

Sansa’s jaw clenched. “If you think that is the matter, then you were never as clever as you thought you were. It was wedding a Lannister that horrified me to the core. I admit never finding your face fair to look upon, but if you were not tied by blood and/or allegiance to the people who killed my family, were good to me, and could have taken me away, I could have been content to be your wife.”

 _False. False. All my women._ Tyrion glared. “But none of those supposed objections--- my blood, my name, my home, have stood in your way now, have they?”

“What does that mean?” 

“The hall last night--- that room was three doors down from the Lannister nursery. It is a hall well into the Lannister family quarters. An immense celebration was being conducted below the Rock, outside. What were you doing there?!”

Sansa leaned back, thoroughly at unawares. “What business is it of yours?”

“It’s my bloody home. Tell me.”

She sighed. “My daughter and I were putting her younger brothers to bed. They were allowed to stay out for part of the banquet, but we brought them back.”

“There are a great deal of guests at Casterly Rock. Not just anyone would be allowed to store their children in the Lannister nursery. But your children sleep there?” Even during his father’s fine tournament, only the royal family’s children were welcome. Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys ended up staying behind at the Red Keep, but the offer was still open.

She gaped for a moment. “You think I am married to Lord Martyn.”

“Your children are sleeping in the beds Jaime, Cersei, and I once inhabited. You give orders to my family’s men. You’re allowed to lecture the Lord of Casterly Rock and involve yourself in our affairs. You clearly have free reign of the castle. It is not hard to figure out.”

“You’ve seen my daughter, yes?”

“Of course.”

“What color is her hair?”

Brown or black. It was hard to tell exactly. He settled with: “Dark.”

“What color is Martyn’s hair?”

“Gold." 

“How could Martyn possibly sire a dark-haired girl on a red-haired wife? You’re wrong.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then how have you and your children been permitted to take up residence in such intimate castle quarters? The only non-Lannister children that were allowed to stay there were---“

A quirk of her left brow stopped him “---The royal family?”

He grew angrier. “Do you think me a fool, Woman? That is one thing I most decidedly am not. There are only two Targaryens--- the queen and her nephew. If Martyn couldn’t give you a dark-haired child, there is no way one of those silver-haired dragons could. There is no way that girl is the prince’s child.”

 _And he’d never wed a Stark._ That Aegon hadn’t managed to wed Daenerys was hysterical, but that didn’t mean the lad would wed the niece of the woman who replaced his mother. Martyn, on the other hand, was Sansa’s age, and had been released back to the Lannisters after the Golden Tooth. _And it would be exactly the sort of thing my Uncle Kevan might cook up. Lancel was near death, I was gone. Perhaps he had this Hardyng chap taken out and took back the key to the North._  It would be what Tywin might do, and Kevan was always so quick to follow his older brother’s lead.

He didn’t ever think Sansa particularly clever, but did she honestly think she could play at something like this? _What does it gain her, lying about this? So she could pretend to be kinder? False. False._

She gave him a stupid look. “Wait… What? My husband---”

“---- I met Aegon, you know. Did your _husband_ ever tell you that?” ‘Young Griff’ had dyed his hair blue to hide his identity, but in truth it was as silvery as his father’s. No trace of his Dornish blood whatsoever. “Your daughter has the look of Stark in her, which she obviously got from you. If that’s the case, then Martyn could have sired her as well as any Targaryen.”

She gaped. “You mean you honestly don’t know?” 

“Don’t know what?!” He said impatiently. He was so very sick of not knowing things. _Get to the point, Woman._

For some reason, she went red. “There… There was another, Lord Tyrion. The young man you knew as Aegon died long ago. But... remember my Aunt Lyanna?” 

Tyrion gaped. “But how and where could such a child be---?”

And all of a sudden, it all clicked into place. “ _My father says the mind is a weapon, and that it needs a book like a sword needs a whetstone.” Gods above. Of course._ The girl didn’t just look like Sansa. There was the thick, dark, curly hair. The length of her face. The slenderness of her frame. And that pout… a pout he hadn’t just seen on Sansa. _That’s who she reminded me of. The sullen bastard boy whom I joked with. I pissed off the Wall in front of him._ His jaw dropped. 

“Seven Hells. Your honorable Father never did break his vow, did he?”


	2. Love and Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion meets with the Lannisters and the Stark-Targaryens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Blue for her beta-help!

He walked through the halls of Casterly Rock, noting all the changes he’d been absent for, how little of it he could claim as his. _I’m a stranger in my own home._

That afternoon, some maids brought him to finer rooms on the other side of the castle that once belonged to Jaime--- large, decorated with gleaming weapons mounted on the walls. A great four-poster bed hung with red silk sat upon a platform. At the bedside sat a stool needed for Tyrion to get in--- thanks to his shoulder, he couldn’t climb like before. The walls were painted with forest scenes. The braziers and fire were lit, as was incense, filling the room with spice. All the wooden furniture was meticulously carved, the moldings polished gold. Too big a room for him, and perhaps too fine after all these years. 

After having spent more than a few nights in ditches, all this wealth seemed odd to him, despite having been raised in it. _I should not have to feel like I don’t belong in the home I was born in._

A crystal decanter of Dornish Red sat upon a small, circular table beside a plate of grapes and cheese and two brass cups. Tyrion poured himself one and glanced around at the faces of the painted animals. There were lions, but also stags, wolves, falcons… _Did you lot watch my siblings fuck years ago?_

Tyrion was surprised that these rooms weren’t given to the prince. _Prince Jon,_ Tyrion reminded himself in utter amazement, _Prince Jon Snow. Prince Jon Targaryen._

The conversation with his wife proved enlightening and shocking in a number of ways. _Martyn is Lord of Casterly Rock and has been for years, the White Walker came with their Night's King and were destroyed by dragons, Jon Snow is the long lost son of Prince Rhaegar, and my dutiful little wife is apparently influential enough to guide the interests of nearly every House in the kingdom._

 _And she’s fucking her brother._ Yes, these rooms seemed all too appropriate for the prince and princess. How much had changed, and he’d missed it all. _Jaime and Cersei got to change the world within their damned bedchambers. I traveled across the known world and have nothing to show for it. Not even a home of my own. A treacherous bitch can open her legs to her blood kin and create kings. I took a ship across the Narrow Sea to aid the Dragon Queen and the world has passed me by._

 _I was supposed to make the world shake with my roar. I saved King’s Landing at Blackwater. I killed Tywin Lannister. And yet my life and my legacy and my influence seem as small and stunted as I am myself. I am outdone by little girls._ It wasn’t fair. Tyrion refilled his cup twice and emptied it every time.

What else had passed him by? _I am by rights Lord of Casterly Rock… Or am I?_ His father swore he’d never take Casterly Rock, _but how much of that was put into writing?_ It wasn’t like Lord Tywin to be lax about that sort of thing, but then, the succession was in the air for quite a while. Tommen, poor boy, was dead. Jaime and Cersei were gone. Tommen, according to Sansa, was dead. Kevan and Lancel were gone. Jaime had joined the Kingsguard at sixteen and was now dead besides. _There was that question hanging there for a long while. Did he ever put that in writing?_

Tyrion had not dared to ask until after Blackwater. Tywin had looked at him with those cruel eyes and told him never. The dwarf was never acknowledged as the heir. But there was never any public recognition that he wasn’t, either. _Winterfell was supposed to make up for that, but I don’t have that either._

When he killed his father, he was a convicted criminal and Jaime was disowned and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. But the girl Naerys said “everyone” knew that he hadn’t killed Joffrey. Did the disqualification of Joffrey’s murder still stand? Would it matter if it did?

 _And even if it didn’t and my father never officially cut me out,_ he thought angrily, _Martyn’s been ruling for how long?_

Long enough, and well enough too, most likely. Well enough to host the royal family for a tournament that matched one Lord Tywin held at the height of his power in terms of splendor. It would take far more than gold to do that. Even if the dragon queen could be persuaded, the prince and princess were Starks. Sansa personally had learned a wariness of Lannisters that no amount of gold alone could fix.

 _He’s rebuilt a few burned bridges._ After Cersei, that was more than a little impressive.

Martyn also had a wife and three children. Two sons and a daughter. Sansa described them as fine children, “as attractive as your siblings, but with their father’s kind nature.” Martyn apparently got a Stark to speak well of Lannisters.

Martyn was never groomed for leadership. He was the third son of a second son, two minutes younger than his dead twin Willem and years younger than Lancel. Both of Lancel’s younger brothers had far kinder natures than their older brother. They were Myrcella and Tommen’s favorite cousins, and they even stood up to Joffrey on Tommen’s behalf. It earned them both beatings with a switch for their trouble, but it happened twice more regardless. Finally, they were sent off to be squires a bit earlier than planned in order to avoid conflict. 

But they were never expected to lead or inherit anything. Martyn had to have been young when he inherited the Rock. And while the gold of the territories was inexhaustible, the golden legacy of prior Lannisters would be tainted, especially with this new regime. _King Aerys was killed by Jaime, and now the Mad King’s daughter rules. Her heir was raised by a Stark and is married to another Stark. The Stark who had to deal with Lannister cruelty in person._

Tyrion knew enough to know that his sister had gone off the rails once she was free of Tywin’s guidance, and became so venomously hated that her name was now a synonym for “bitch” (that made him smile). The fact that any Lannister still lived, and that Casterly Rock still existed, was a miracle, really. Tyrion had intended to work towards maintaining his House and lands through his service to the dragon queen. But he never got to the chance. Somehow little Martyn managed to keep things together. _And in so doing, stole my birthright._  

Tyrion remembered those contracts he signed with those sellswords, promising them gold from Casterly Rock. _I wonder if that ever came up._

Whether it did or not, Tyrion could be sure that his cousin would not be eager to hand over the castle to him. _Am I lord by right? Or am I a pauper lying in plush pillows?_

There was a knock on the door at midday, when Tyrion had his face buried in velvet pillows. He lifted his head and shouted for whomever it was to come in.

Martyn came in nervously, his green eyes cast downward. Tyrion watched him. _He looks every bit the Lannister lord._ Martyn was thirty-three, slender, golden-haired, green-eyed, and handsome. He wasn’t a doppelganger for Jaime the way Lancel had been. He was more slender and boyish. If it weren’t for the close-cut beard and the faint laugh lines around his eyes, he might look more twenty-three than thirty-three.

“Cousin Tyrion, I hope these rooms are a bit better. I’m sorry about the wait, we had to do some rushed planning. It’s been rather hectic what with---“

“The tourney, yes. I imagine so.” Tyrion turned over so he might face his cousin. Martyn flinched just as he had earlier. “These were Jaime’s rooms, you know.”

“Were they?” Martyn looked around in surprise. “I would think his rooms would be near the nursery.”

“Alas no. Cersei and I had chambers near there, but Jaime was moved to the other side of the castle before I was born. No one ever told me why, but if I had to guess, my older brother and sister may have shown signs of their rather _particular_ attraction even as children." 

Martyn flinched. Tyrion laughed.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are we not supposed to speak of that? In my day, we were really only supposed to refer to it as ‘Stannis’s vile slander’, or something of the sort.”

“---No, we all acknowledge it. I just don’t like to make light of it for Myrcella’s sake.” 

Tyrion stopped laughing. He felt his voice catch in his throat. “…Myrcella still lives?”

He’d not thought much on it--- not wanted to, really--- but he’d sort of taken it for granted that all of Cersei and Jaime’s brood had been killed off. After all, how could/would anyone let them live? In Joffrey’s case, his death was a blessing at large. But Tommen and Myrcella were good, dear children, worth a hundred of their older brother.

“She does. She’s in Dorne still. It turns out your agreement with the Martells saved at least one of Cersei’s children. She is not married to Prince Trystane, of course. But apparently during their betrothal they grew fond enough of one another that he insisted she be taken in after the truth was known. Daenerys Targaryen agreed to it to keep the Dornish happy. Princess Arianne was quite insistent on it, though I suspect part of that was out of guilt. There was… an incident… that came about because of some of the princess’s exploits. She’s Myrcella Waters now. But she is a nurse to Princess Arianne’s children, and part of the household, as happy as she could be, under the circumstances.”

Tyrion’s heart rose for the clever little golden-haired girl with the gentle heart. Simultaneously, he thanked the gods that sending her to Dorne had been the right choice, and cursed himself for ever thinking to make her a queen.

“Would you like me to write her and tell her that you’re back?” Martyn offered, coming closer. “She’d be overjoyed, I’m sure.”

The dwarf’s heart ached. _I’m too spoiled to work my way into Myrcella’s life again._ He knew by now his niece would have had to have seen some harsh things--- learning the truth of her parentage, being rendered a bastard could not have been easy. But Myrcella was a strong girl. Strong in a way that even sweet little Tommen wasn’t. She was a good child who stood up to Joffrey, and was always untouched by Cersei’s malevolence. If anyone could make it through the years with their goodness and innocence intact, it was Myrcella. _She doesn’t need my filthy influence in her life. Cersei was right._

He sat up and shook his head. “Not… not just yet.” 

 _I will not lose my composure in front of Martyn. I will not collapse in tears before him the way he did for me all those years ago._ Something would be lost then, if he did. He was already small and stunted and ugly and drunken. But he needed to keep some sort of pride. Tyrion drew his thoughts away from Myrcella and poor, poor Tommen. 

Martyn, the shit, came and sat beside him anyways, as if Tyrion were some small child he wished to comfort. That infuriated him. Tyrion looked his cousin in the eye. “Casterly Rock. It is mine by rights.”

Martyn flinched away, getting to his feet once more. “Cousin… As much as it grieves me to say it, there’s little truth to that statement.”

 _Oh, I bet it absolutely breaks your heart. You must be in agony._ “Oh? I am the only remaining trueborn child of Tywin Lannister.”

“That stopped meaning much years ago.” Martyn looked thoroughly uncomfortable. “You will always have a place here but---“

“---A place as the impoverished, unwanted, drunken relative. Oh yes. I know that place. It’s in the sewers. I was always denied everything else. Am I to guess that denial made it to paper?”

_Just tell me._

Martyn swallowed. “It… It may have. With your conviction. I’m afraid any rights you had to Casterly Rock died with the Red Viper.” 

“A conviction for a crime I did not commit!” He wanted to throttle his cousin. “I NEVER TOUCHED THE BOY! CERSEI LIED! THEY ALL LIED! LITTLEFINGER AND ALL HIS LITTLE AGENTS DID IT! I NEVER HARMED THAT LITTLE SHIT, EVEN THOUGH I WISH I HAD! AT LEAST THEN I COULD HAVE SUFFERED FOR SOMETHING WORTH BEING PROUD OF! BUT I NEVER DID! IT WAS ALL LIES! CERSEI AND FATHER AND SHAE AND LITTLEFINGER! MY CRIMES WERE HOLDING A CUP, BEING A DWARF, AND TRYING TO REIGN IN THE TYRANNICAL LITTLE MONSTER MY SISTER BIRTHED FROM DESTROYING THE REALM! ALL THE THINGS EVERY COURT HAS EVER ACCUSED ME OF… LIES!”

“I know. But even if that doesn’t stand, there’s the matter of you having been legally dead for quite a number of years. I’ve been ruling Casterly Rock for fifteen years, Cousin. I was named as Warden of the West by the queen herself ten years ago---“ 

“---Ten years?” The Lannisters had been Wardens of the West since they were kings. 

“---As you can imagine, with the return of the dragons, the Lannister name has been somewhat… diminished. For a while, House Marbrand was given wardenship of the West. It took quite a while for us to work ourselves back into the good graces of the royal family. But eventually, I was able to convince Her Grace to return the title and duties to our House.”

Tyrion stared. And then a thought struck him. “---Then who are the Wardens of the North and East then?” _If the Lannisters could lose their title, then surely the Starks and Arryns couldn’t have made out with it. Even if Sansa did manage a royal match, she’s only a woman and all her brothers are dead._ There was a bit of satisfaction in all of this. The proud Starks losing their title. It was funny enough when Robert named Jaime Warden of the East following Jon Arryn’s death. He had a hard time believing that sickly, suckling Arryn boy managed to survive, either. Knowing this would give him a good hold on some of the things happening. And the thought of his father’s face if he knew that all his bloodthirsty warring and politicking had lost the Lannisters their title… _Oh, I almost wish you’d been alive to see it. We had to beg it back from a little girl._

“Gilwood Hunter Arryn is Warden of the East, Lord of the Eyrie, and Protector of the Vale, and Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell is Warden of the North.” 

Tyrion’s jaw dropped. “Did you say _Arya_ Stark?” _No, she’s dead. All the Starks but Sansa are dead._

“I did. Princess Sansa’s sister. She’s been co-ruling the North with her sister from Winterfell for a dozen years or so. The princess eventually ceded her sister the title of Warden about seven years ago.”

“---But… She’s a girl!” Tyrion never saw much of Arya Stark, only a few brief glimpses of her at Winterfell. She’d been a horse-faced, skinny, wild, dirty rascal of a child, with more energy, it seemed, than even her brothers. She’d led Tommen into the Great Hall of Winterfell at the royal banquet and didn’t even hesitate to roll her eyes. She more or less dragged the boy, really. Unlike her already impeccably mannered sister, she was loud, outspoken, and mischievous. Tyrion liked her as much as Cersei had despised her, but she was a little girl. Despite how many years had passed… 

Martyn cleared his throat. “Cousin, half of the lords paramount in the realm today are women. Princess Arianne Martell rules Dorne, Shireen Baratheon is Lady of Storm’s End, Asha Greyjoy is Lady Reaper of Pyke, and Princess Sansa remains Head of House Stark and Lady of Winterfell in her own right. And, well, a woman sits the Iron Throne, holding Slaver’s Bay along with the Seven Realms, controlling the largest empire since Old Valyria. The wars were utterly devastating, nearly killing off entire Houses. Many of them only had the daughters left. It’s… worked out a bit better than many expected.”

 _So we’ve become the hill tribes, even letting the women have a say._ “Next you’ll tell me Wildlings have come to live among us.”

Martyn shifted uncomfortably. Tyrion asked for another drink. His cousin fetched him another cup of wine and Tyrion shook his head as he took it.

“And now what?” He asked.

“I’m… I’m not sure, Cousin. The queen is back in the capital.”

“So I didn’t see a dragon flying above last night?” He saw green wings the day before. He’d seen the beast before, actually, in Yunkai, shortly after the Ironborn Fleet left. He saw all of them. The green one. The white one. The gigantic black one. When he first saw them, he nearly shit himself in excitement. But when he saw those green wings overhead for the first time in years, the figure of his childhood dreams somehow ceased to amaze him.

“Rhaegal is Prince Jon’s official mount. She sometimes travels with him.”

_Of course he has a fucking dragon._

Tyrion stared down his gold cup. He could see his grisly reflection in the surface of his wine. _Hideous. Not the face of a dragon rider._ Tyrion saw Daenerys Targaryen riding the black dragon all those years ago in Yunkai. He actually almost got close to her when she dismounted in the city square. But the crowds threw him back. She’d been as beautiful and terrifying as they said, short white hair bursting out of her head like moonlight, fiery purple eyes, covered from head to toe in ash, brandishing a bloody Dothraki Arakh.

Tyrion tried to imagine that skinny boy he’d known riding by her side on the green one. _Jon Snow in his Nights Watch blacks._ It wasn’t exactly how he pictured dragon riders when he used to dream of Aegon the Conqueror or the Old Valyrians.

_A dragon. My wife. Anything you’re not riding, Jon Snow? Have you made a saddle for that great white wolf of yours and begun riding it as well?_

But Tyrion forced a mean smile. “Ah, so you couldn’t get the queen to come then? So much for improving the Lannister profile.”

Martyn shrugged. “Baby steps. She’s been to Casterly Rock a couple of times before, but having the whole royal family visit would have meant moving the entire court. Winter has been difficult on all of us. She is the Mother of Dragons. Her choices are her own. But having two out of the three here isn’t so bad.”

 “If you tell me that Sansa bloody Stark is a dragon rider as well, I will skin you alive.”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not a Targaryen.” 

Tyrion breathed a great sigh of relief.

“…It’s her daughter that’s learning to ride Viserion.” 

It started with a half-snort that befitted his half-nose. Then his shoulders began to shake. His eyes began to water. And before long, the chambers and possibly that entire wing of Casterly Rock seemed to echo with his laughter. Laughter that sometimes sounded like shrieks.

~_~_~_~_~

The next morning, he was in a better state. He even smiled as he strode into the Great Hall for breakfast.

“At the tourney my father held for King Aerys at Lannisport, Prince Rhaegar rode and unhorsed three champion knights,” Tyrion said, walking up to the grand table. He took a seat across from his cousin, Martyn’s wife, and Jon and Sansa. The children had sat at the table---- all four of the royal brood, and Martyn’s three children. But when he sat, Sansa ordered them to go play. When she did this, her husband gave her an odd look and Naerys left reluctantly.

_That little girl is set to ride a full grown dragon, and she still scampers at her mother’s command._

Judging by the fact that he was able to sit down without anyone threatening him, Sansa had not divulged the contents of their discussion to her husband, or anyone else, for Jon Targaryen and Martyn greeted him with eager grins. Lady Nallette, Martyn’s wife, was a handsome woman in her mid-twenties with soft yellow ringlets, sharp brown eyes, and a generous bosom. As he sat, she wrinkled her pretty little freckled nose.

Sansa Stark’s face, meanwhile, was a girlish mask. The sort of expression his sister tried but never could quite master. A glittering smile but with eyes so blank as to look stupid. He’d seen that look on her pretty face many times before, but now he knew there was a lie behind it as well.

 _There’s cunning there you’re hiding, at the very least, if not genuine wits._ Cersei could never quite sell her false smiles, but Sansa, apparently, could. One didn’t end up in her position without something there. But he still couldn’t gauge the extent of it. _You could at least make it obvious like my sister did._ It made his stomach turn.

Tyrion ordered some eggs and bacon from the servant nearby and continued. “It’s unfortunate, Your Grace, that you could not follow in your father’s footsteps for this Lannister tournament.”

Jon Targaryen smiled with a good humor. Tyrion actually couldn’t stop looking at the man who was once the sullen, naïve boy called Jon Snow. 

He still had the dark, shaggy hair, grey eyes, and rather long, solemn face. He’d grown even taller in stature. And though he was still very much on the lean side, he was no longer skinny but athletic and trim. A few silvery scars decorated his right eye, and he’d grown a thicker, close-trimmed beard. His eyes, which once always seemed to look around with dismay, confusion, or youthful anger, now looked steadier, and were more expressive. He held himself with neither the sulkiness nor the youthful arrogance he used to bounce between, his posture in a more self-assured place between. A smile came to his face a bit more easily, teasing and humor seeming to bounce off of him.

There were flickers of worry, especially when those eyes noted Tyrion’s missing nose, limp, and slumped shoulder. But the pity geared more towards respectful concern than condescending disgust. He carried himself less like a sullen but thirsty youth eager for adventure and the chance to prove himself and more like an experienced man who didn’t care about proving himself and had seen enough adventure to last him a lifetime. The way men like his uncle Benjen, Barristan Selmy, Jeor Mormont, or Kevan Lannister once did.

 _He’s a man,_ Tyrion realized. _He’s not a bastard boy. He’s a man. And a prince._

His Watch blacks were gone, though he’d hardly replaced that sad garb with voluminous silks of the standard royal. His doublet was russet lamb’s wool, his black leather doublet tailored with a modest silver clasp at the raised collar. The most notable things about what he wore were the Valyrian steel sword clasped to his belt, and the fact that even at breakfast, his hands were covered by black doeskin gloves. His left ring finger had a slight bulge indicating a single ring, likely a signet.

Martyn was dressed more finely, in green silk which matched his eyes. His wife’s gown was red silk.

Sansa wore blue lamb’s wool with white and grey embroidered flowers on the cuffs and neckline, her hair in a simple net. She sat between Jon and Martyn, her chair close to her husbands, her posture more relaxed and slightly inclined towards him. Likewise, the prince’s seat was angled slightly towards her. After Jon had noted Tyrion’s wounds, he and his wife shared a quick glance. When Sansa ordered the children away, another followed. Each look was clearly meant to communicate a great deal. 

This was not at all how Cersei and Robert Baratheon sat with one another. But Tyrion had observed this sort of silent, subtle comfort in other, happier couples. He noted the little direwolves and initials ornately stitched in grey thread on the cuffs of the prince’s gloves and wondered if they were the work of Sansa’s own hand.

Martyn and Nallette had a similar easy manner with one another, though they were more openly affectionate, with Martyn reaching over on the table to cover his wife’s hand with his own and occasionally rubbing her back. _If he was smart, he'd be grabbing for her arse._  Tyrion remembered Nallette – she was the daughter of a Westerlands family – as a sweet-natured young girl of good birth.  A suitable wife for the Lord of Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister had once suggested that she be betrothed to Tyrion, but her father had turned down a marriage to the Imp flat.  Judging by the look on her face, that was a great relief to her. He leered at her a bit, happy for her discomfort. 

“Uncle, come now---“ Martyn began, but Jon held up a hand in good-natured protest.

“It is no trouble, My Lord.” The Targaryen smiled. “I was never very sound with a lance. My brother always outdid me there. As it was, we never had many tourneys up North. It’s more of a Southern pleasure. I’d rather watch others succeed instead of humiliate myself. I’m more of a swordsman.”

“Your brother?” Tyrion asked, smirking.

The smile faltered and Jon’s eyes flickered. “My good-brother. Robb.”

The prince had clearly improved his ability to obscure his feelings, but not quite enough. Tyrion decided to test him further. “What a shame. Swords are fine, but they don’t allow you an event to set all the girls atwitter. A lance has always been more geared to impress the ladies in a great show.”

“I manage to compensate, thankfully,” Jon replied, his lips turning upwards at the ends ever so slightly. “Perhaps one cannot joust with a sword, but I have the good fortune to wield Valyrian steel, and I wield it well. Enough to please others and prove my metal. And I’ve never felt the need to prove myself through empty displays of sport to the public. I know my own abilities, if a bit less extravagant, are more than enough." 

Tyrion snorted. The prince’s eyes were sharp and challenging, but not hostile or angry.

“Tell me, Lord Tyrion, what weapon do you prefer to wield? You know, to prove yourself?” Sansa’s face and tone presented the same sort of innocence she had as a twelve-year-old. But Tyrion didn’t trust it.

The Lannister frowned. “I wielded an axe and my wits, My Lady.”

“You mean your tongue? I seem to recall you mentioning that was all you had,” she smiled a little at this. Tyrion tried to remember what she was referring to. “I suppose at certain times it was effective enough. Though I confess I never witnessed enough to be suitably impressed by it. Though I wouldn’t want you to exhaust your greatest weapon. It might grow clumsy from overuse.”

Then he remembered. The banquet. The exchange with Joffrey about gelding where he judged his own manhood small and pathetic. He’d implored the boy with false drunkenness to let him keep his tongue so he’d have something with which to please his sweet new wife. He found his jaw dropping again, but immediately shut it. Fury rose up within him. Eager to unsettle her, (and possibly get her to throw up again) he replied, “Are you interested in me proving its abilities?”

She remained calm. “Oh no, not at all. You might end up proving something to me, but I doubt you’d be happy with the result.”

“Well, perhaps my tongue might not make me happy, clumsy, overused weapon it might be,” Tyrion spat, “However, it seems we have that weapon in common. I admit I have thus far been similarly unimpressed by yours, with all due respect. But perhaps you might be able to display its skills to me further. I’d be willing to evaluate you, and I’m sure that would end with _your_ tongue making me more than happy.”

“COUSIN!” Martyn shouted, utterly horrified. Nallette was actually recoiling. 

Jon Targaryen stood, clearly offended in a manner that reminded the dwarf of when he’d derided the Night’s Watch for the first time. Tyrion held his hands up. “My apologies if I’ve offended. My time away has clearly done a number on my manners, which were never good to begin with. Call it a dwarf’s error.”

The only person who wasn’t glaring at him or on their feet was the one he intended to infuriate.  Sansa sat and stared steadily. No signs of potential vomit.

“You may want to work on your manners, Lord Tyrion,” she said.  “I once told you that courtesy is my armor. My own manners have managed to protect and serve me well through these difficult years. They’ve always been part of my arsenal.” She gently lifted the knife by her plate. She began playing with it, nimbly tossing it into the air and catching it deftly. “I’ve learned to wield a few weapons as well. If you decide to go to battle with me, you wouldn’t be happy, regardless of my tongue’s skill. So make sure your armor is kept in shape. Otherwise, that which gives you the ability to find happiness with a woman or her tongue may be lost to you forever.” 

Stunned, Tyrion looked at Jon Targaryen. “If this is what you’ve lived with for years, it’s a wonder that you haven’t lost more.” 

But the prince sat, giving his wife a furtive look. “No need to be bitter, My Lord. It just so happens that my princess can be as fierce as she is sweet, though those who behave themselves see far more of the latter. I know how to behave, and thus I only ever see the wolfsblood bared towards others. I am sorry that you had to be dealt that blow, but hopefully you’ve learned something. Namely that my wife is the sort of woman you want on your side.”

They exchanged fond looks. It sickened him.

“I’d think you’d want a more proper lady by your side,” remarked the dwarf.

“I have the lady proper for me,” replied the prince evenly.

 _I’ve seen that proper lady’s teats on two separate occasions._ But he kept his mouth shut for the rest of the meal. Upon his return to his rooms, he managed to down several cups of wine before collapsing once again into the sweet oblivion that was unconsciousness. He woke later when there was a loud knocking at his door.

Jon Targaryen entered, in the same russet lamb’s wool and black jerkin, with the same gloves. His breeches and boots were black as well, merely wool, but well made. Tyrion saw that despite the obvious strength and health of him, he limped ever so slightly. Tyrion glanced at the gloves again, then at the scars on his eye. _Why must he wear his wounds so well?_

“You wore those gloves at breakfast as well. Why? Is your affection for your wife’s stitching truly that great?”

The former bastard looked at Tyrion in concern. “Are you ill?”

“Always. But no more now than usual.” He sat up. “Shall I get to my feet and bow to my new prince?”

“Not necessary.” The prince then removed his right glove, pulled the sleeve down, and held up his hand. The flesh was bore the marks of extensive burns, burns inflicted many years past. “A souvenir from the first wight I killed." 

 _My greatest scar came from my nephew’s guard chucking an axe at my head… or was it a spear? You got a good story and some ruined skin on your arm. I just lost a nose._ Tyrion flinched. “Not a very fruitful encounter then.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I got Longclaw as a result of that as well,” he said, tapping the white direwolf hilt.

“The Mormont blade,” realized Tyrion. His father, in his lust for Valyrian steel, had made more than one offer for the weapon. Bear Island wasn’t rich and constantly besieged by Ironborn. Lord Tywin was willing to offer enough gold to build a fleet of ships to protect it, but still the Mormonts refused. “What in the Seven Hells did you do to get the Old Bear to give it to you?” 

“I saved his life. He was grooming me for command. His son Jorah had returned it to him upon his exile. So he passed it down to me.”

_My father wasn’t willing to consider me heir to anything. But the Old Bear looks at a greenboy not even of his own blood and decides to give him his greatest treasure._

“A bastard boy with nothing to inherit. And yet you have Valyrian steel, three sons, Winterfell, the Iron Throne, and a dragon. Nothing seems an attractive thing to inherit.

“Winterfell is not mine.”

“Oh? So one of her brothers lives after all? Or, rather, another? That is good news.”

Jon flinched. “Bran is alive, but he lives beyond the Wall. It is complicated. But he is not the Lord of Winterfell. It fell to Sansa.”

“Making you Lord Protector.”

“Making me Lord Consort. Things have changed. My wife and my sister rule the North. My son Robb is heir to Winterfell. But I have no claim upon it.”

 _So neither of us get it. Both of us denied in one way by the same bride._ But Tyrion couldn't feel too much sympathy for him.  _I was denied in more ways than he was._ “How sad for you. But I suppose the title matters little as long as you get to come into the Stark castle as you please.” 

The prince’s mouth became tight. “Lannister, you were my friend once. If you wish for that to continue, you will cease making these lewd comments and upsetting my wife.”

Tyrion glanced around instinctively, half expected to see red eyes and white fur charge toward him and knock him over. _Is that beast even still alive?_ He glanced at Targaryen’s Stark face. Long and betraying nothing, less impetuous than the one from so many years ago. _He’d be how old now? Five-and-thirty? Six-and-thirty? Either way, a man in the years of his prime._ A man with lands, a wife, sons, a dragon, and Valyrian steel. _I won’t be able to rile him up the way I riled up that bastard boy with nothing but a freezing wall and duty ahead of him._

“I’d have to cease living to cease upsetting _your_ wife. That tends to be the case with me. Especially when it comes to women.”

Jon stepped for him, his face anxious. “You’re wrong. She doesn’t want you dead. Not really. Even though at this moment she thinks she does. You’ve upset her. But she always spoke of you as kind when we thought you dead. If you were a threat, she might feel otherwise. But as that is not the case, she means you no ill will.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Tyrion lied. There was satisfaction in being a threat. Apparently, he was just a nuisance. _Once I was too clever to be a mere nuisance._  

“Then stop. We’re trying to help you.”

The dwarf glared. “Are you discussing this help you wish to give me while dining with the cousin who holds the castle that is mine by rights?”

“That is not Martyn’s fault. Everyone believed you dead. You killed your father. Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime are dead. Your Uncle Kevan and cousins Lancel and Willem---“

“---Ah, Willem,” Tyrion said, recalling Martyn’s twin. His lip curled. “Dead by whose hand?" 

The prince swallowed. “Rickard Karstark’s.”

“Bannerman to the King in the North, your brother Robb. Is that ever brought up? Those boys were close as twins could be. Well, no, my own siblings proved that was not the case. So they weren’t. Or I at least _hope_ they weren’t. Martyn has always had some strange---“

“---Robb killed Rickard Karstark for that, as Martyn knows," Jon interrupted, "Justice for Willem’s death cost him a large chunk of his remaining army. Meanwhile, Lannisters slaughtered multiple Starks. We’ve learned to heal and move on from these things. Willem’s death was not my fault, or Sansa’s, or even Robb’s. Just as the deaths of Eddard, Catelyn, and Robb Stark cannot be laid at Martyn’s feet. Learning to let go of old grudges is how we’ve made peace. 

“Shall I let go of Casterly Rock as well as my grudges for the sake of your peace?”

Jon glanced at the ground. “Martyn had been lord here for almost fifteen years. He’s done much for House Lannister and the Westerlands. This is his home.” 

“I imagine he’s been very cooperative with the new Targaryen regime.”

“He has. He’s been cooperative with everyone. To the proper extent. He’s a good man. But I didn’t come here to argue this point. I came here to see how you are.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“You helped me once. You gave me good advice. And you gave it to me for no other purpose than to help me. I’ve learned to appreciate that sort of thing. You care about people. People who are not you. Or you did…. I--- I hope you still do.”

Jon slipped out of the room then, looking chastened for whatever reason. Tyrion scowled and hurled his cup at the door behind him. _I cared time and time again, you ponce. And while mass-murdering monsters like my father were praised and exalted, I was thrown into stinking cells and branded a demon monkey. What did it ever get me? What did caring ever get me?_

He turned over again and buried his head once more. _The only person who ever cared back was Tysha. And I raped her for it. I let my father’s guards all rape her and then I did it myself while thinking her a whore. I’ve never been fit to care for anyone._

Tyrion let the tears soak the silk pillow.


	3. What is Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncomfortable matters are discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for her beta-work!
> 
> You guys are going to see more of the kids here. And some more light is shed on the mindsets of the other characters.

Chapter Three: What is Known

Jon:

“Just what are his claims… To anything? Do we know?” Martyn Lannister did not look comfortable as he sat across his solar table from the Lady of Winterfell. “I mean… He’s been legally dead for years. He cannot claim you as his wife anymore. Can he claim Casterly Rock?”

Sansa glanced at her lap. Jon spoke up from his place by the drink stand in the corner. “We’re not sure. A consultation with Lady Missandei and Lord Allyrion may be in order,” he told the Lord of Casterly Rock, speaking of the Mistress of Letters and the Master of Laws respectively. “The law was created to protect the validity of later matches and the children that resulted. Property and lordships… may be a bit trickier.”

Nobody in the room seemed happy talking about it. But they’d avoided the subject for two days now. 

Martyn put his face in his hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

Sansa hesitated. “Even… Even if Tyrion doesn’t have a full legal claim… You must grant him a keep and some lands of his own, Martyn. Preferably somewhere with a working mine. Set up another branch of House Lannister through him. Surely there’s some pocket of your domain that is in need of a lord.” 

The prince watched his wife with no small measure of concern. She sat, hands in her lap, at a table in the opulent solar they’d been provided. Her color was high, and she appeared a bit ill. _And to think I had us come here to help her relax._

Eight years had passed since the twins were born, and she’d not carried a child for long. Delivering Aemon and Brandon proved extremely difficult and caused an extended bleed that made her too weak to carry again for a while. They almost decided to stop then. When the twins were four, they tried again, and ended up with two early miscarriages that caused further gaps in their attempt to have another child.

This one was making it. Sansa was four moons along and healthy, although still plagued by nausea. Unfortunately, she was trying to work at the same pace she’d worked during the eight years between the twins and this new child. Jon had accepted the invitation to this tourney partly to get her out of the Red Keep for a while. A stay and celebration at one of the most luxurious castles in the realm seemed an ideal solution.

 _Should have gone to Highgarden,_ Jon thought as he stood at a gilded drink stand, pouring his wife a cup of cider. _It may be boring, but it’s always calm._ But this tourney seemed so important to Martyn, and going gave Sansa a sense that she was filling a royal duty anyways, and his wife despised being idle.

 _She’s certainly keeping busy now._ A map of the Westerlands was spread on the table between her and Martyn, who scanned the map carefully, chewing his lip. 

“We might be able to marry him to an heiress in need of a husband—“

“—No,” Sansa said, shaking her head sadly, her voice growing softer. “Martyn, he’s---- he’s not a suitable match.”

She was being considerably more tight-lipped. Jon’s heart sank as he heard this, but he knew what she meant. _Tywin had trouble finding a match for Tyrion when the Lannisters were the most powerful House in the kingdoms and he was heir apparent to Casterly Rock. Now neither of those things are true. Having come back after so many years, even his identity will be doubted. He is a drunk and disfigured and possibly too old to sire strong children. His only claims to anything are highly debatable.  No House or lady would want to take the risk, and how could we ask it of them?_

His wife was not wrong. As she spoke, her voice wavered. Jon brought her the drink quickly, which she took with a small, grateful smile. “Tyrion needs property and income of his own if you want him to have any future at all,” she continued.

“I fear he may not be equipped to handle such a responsibility,” Martyn mused.

“I agree,” Jon admitted, sitting beside Sansa. “He’s… He’s not a well man, Sansa.”

“That why we appoint a regent for him to handle his affairs,” she replied before taking a dainty sip of her cider. “He’s the hero of Blackwater and he’s suffered grievous injustices. He deserves to have something to his name.”

Jon reached over and rubbed her back. _That’s true enough._ , Jon’s heart broke for the man. He knew what it was to be denied a home by accident of birth and circumstance. Jon had reconciled himself to the fact that Winterfell would never be his years ago, but he remembered what it had been like as a boy, to look around the castle and know his birth meant it could never be his.

 _But I suppose the title matters little as long as you get to come into the Stark castle as you please._ Tyrion meant that as a lewd jape, but it was true enough. He’d made several trips there over the years even without Sansa and always had a warm bed and a place at the table waiting for him, Arya always eager to receive him with open arms.

He even had authority there. Orders from him were often received as carrying the blessing of his wife or sister. If he was present and immediate direction or approval could not be obtained from Sansa or Arya for whatever reason, his council was usually sought. Jon was considered a Stark of Winterfell, and was shown the respect, privileges, and power due a member of the family. Sansa and Arya were of a higher authority there, and they got the last word on various matters, but Jon had more access and authority in the North than he’d ever enjoyed as a boy.

 _But then, I’m not entirely unfit for such duties._ It took just a few words with Tyrion to know that he simply wasn’t capable of serving as a lord in his current state. The man was very clearly drunk when they spoke, and drunk in a manner that clearly debilitated him far more than it did twenty years ago. 

Apparently, the servants had to bring a new pitcher of wine into his chambers every few hours. When Tyrion spoke, his words were slurred. There was this darkness and anger to him as well. Everyone could see it. The way he glared at all of them. The way he spoke to everyone. 

Jon found himself more shocked than he perhaps should have been during breakfast with Tyrion’s words towards Sansa. His wife was a bit on edge since she spoke to him privately (Jon suspected the account she gave him of the conversation left out a few things) and when she brought up the tongue thing, Jon was surprised. Sure, the double entendres regarding the lance were rather vulgar, but he hadn’t been offended by them.

He _had,_ however, become offended when Tyrion essentially proposed to his wife that she “prove” her tongue and make him happy with it. Tyrion was always a bit lewd, but from what Jon saw, it was just when he was around other men. Tyrion entered the hall with a lewd jape. Then he took it further by (angrily) suggesting to his princess that she suck his cock. He did this in front of her husband. 

Then that line about coming into her castle… _I’m her bloody husband._ Jon cared about the Lannister. Even after he’d learned of the marriage to Sansa and the kinslaying, he couldn’t believe ill of Tyrion.  When he heard about the kinslaying, he hadn’t believed that Tyrion killed his own father. It turned out to be true, but Jon was willing to believe the attack was warranted.

_He gave me advice and help when no one else would. He told me the truth. The hard truth. He helped Bran. He protected Sansa._

But Jon could only stand for so much. Sansa was carrying a babe within her, and she was no longer in her youth as far as childbearing was concerned. She needed rest and relaxation and kindness. With Tyrion being back, she was already hurrying to try and find the man living arrangements and worrying about him. She didn’t need vulgarity flung in her direction. She needed neither the hostility of their face to face interactions nor the stress of trying to procure living arrangements for him.

“Could a section of your own domains possibly be set aside for him?” Jon asked, scanning the map of the Westerlands. _He deserves at least a piece and the Lannisters have so much._ Even in the aftermath of the war, they still had so much gold, so much land. Jon wanted to help his friend. _If we even are still friends._

Once, Tyrion Lannister called Jon a friend. But now Jon wondered if the man was capable of looking upon him the same way. Him or anyone. Anger radiated off of him. Jon had seen this before. The wars left many broken and bitter, drowning in spirits. _What sort of horrors did he witness after he escaped the capital?_ The wars had at least ended for some, but it seemed for Tyrion that they’d gone on much longer.

 _I’d be a poor friend if I didn’t help him._ Sansa seemed eager to. Jon didn’t know much about the brief period of their marriage. Whenever he asked her about it, she’d just shrug and tell him that it was a sad period in her life, but that Tyrion had been “kind, or as kind as he could have been. He seemed nearly as unhappy as I was.”

The situation, however, was so very awkward. The Tyrion Lannister Jon knew was an industrious, bookish, sharp-tongued but oddly good-humored man eager to state hard truths and make people laugh. There was an odd kindness to him, a wistful sadness which he seemed to put aside often enough. 

But there was no putting aside the obvious demons haunting him now. His mismatched eyes stared so hard and so violently it chilled Jon to the bone. And no amount of wine seemed to make anything better for him. It seemed to make him worse, and even worse, he didn’t seem to care. The only hints of positive feeling that Jon saw was when Tyrion succeeded in making someone else feel uncomfortable.

When Jon first saw the man known as “The Imp”, he thought him quite ugly with his stunted height, mismatched eyes, and white hair. But that Tyrion Lannister was beautiful compared to what he’d become. His white hair was patchy and thin, and he had a weak beard that grew in darker than the hair atop his head. His face was so heavily lined. Of course, there was the missing nose. In its place was a brown and white lump and hole. He had trouble moving one of his arms, his shoulder obviously damaged, and there was a severe limp besides. A horrible thing to see in a man who Jon once saw leap from a great height and land with acrobatic precision that amazed him as a teenager.

Jon didn’t so much feel repelled looking at him as incredibly sad. The formerly lusty and vibrant person he’d known seemed so old, so sick, so defeated by life. It was like a group of buzzards had come upon him, mistaking him for dead, and begun picking the flesh from his bones before he was even a corpse.

In his many years, Jon saw so many war wounds, so many disfigurements, so much damage. Tyrion ranked up there with the worst he’d seen. If not for the black and green of his eyes and the way he spoke, Jon might have mistaken him for a wight.

_But he is alive. And while he is, we will help him._

The prince just wished he could find a way for the man to have Casterly Rock. _All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes._ After everything Tyrion had suffered, he at least deserved to hold his father’s lands, the lands that should have been his by right.

But surely it couldn’t happen. For one thing, there was Martyn, who Jon had tried for years not to like. Who _everyone_ for years tried not to like, and universally failed. The man was as much like Tywin or Cersei as Jon was like Ramsay Snow. Same surname, but completely different character traits.

Gold from Casterly Rock helped pay debts towards the Iron Bank and build roads and bridges. Martyn gave the gold not as loans but as “payments” for the harm his House had done the realm. Tax breaks were granted for relief supplies passing through  Lannisport, and Martyn paid for shipping in Oldtown and White Harbor as well. Those supplies helped rebuild the most damaged areas of the realm, alleviating the suffering of the smallfolk. 

Martyn had reached out to the foreign houses to makes amends and work together to heal the realm, gave grants to the Faith to build homes for orphans and widows. He fostered numerous orphaned young nobles at Casterly Rock and made sure the children were educated, their family estates were well managed, and proper matches were made for them. And he’d simply done excellent work running the Westerlands. When a couple of more minor houses tried to rise up, he quelled their little rebellions and thus never gained the reputation for weakness Lord Tytos did. But he also became known for generosity.

The young man had fought tooth and nail for years to recover the Lannister reputation and help others. He’d more than earned his position. No one in good conscience could take his title and lands from him.

And it wasn’t like Tyrion was in any position to hold Casterly Rock.

What Sansa proposed seemed ideal. Save for one small thing…

“What if he were to have children?” Martyn asked, looking like he much rather wouldn’t. “Willem is my heir. Any children of Tyrion’s might be a threat to my son. Years from now, some vassal might have reason to quarrel with my son or I, and decide to try and prop up the next grandson of Tywin Lannister as the _true_ Lord of Casterly Rock in revenge.  Or Tyrion’s son might not be content with a small inheritance, and try to assert his own claim against Willem.“

“Well, assuming Tyrion can… can even have children,” Sansa said, her voice wavering, “We might be able to get him to forswear all claims to Casterly Rock to you and your line. There is precedent. Before Robb died, he named Jon his heir. Jon disavowed all claims to Winterfell in my favor.”

Martyn glanced at Jon anxiously. “The two of you are friends… Do you think you might convince him?”

His mouth went dry. Martyn’s green eyes were hopeful. _This isn’t a man asking out of pure self-interest. He’s asking for the sake of his son. For the sake of his people._ Jon tried to keep that in mind. There weren’t many things Jon wouldn’t ask of a person for Naerys, Robb, Aemon, or Brandon’s sakes. Still he answered, “Please… Don’t ask me to do that.”

He could not walk up to that broken man and try to bargain him into setting aside the home he grew up in. To give up the claims his sons might have.  To be a party to his own disinheritance.  No matter what practical reasons… Jon could not do it. Not to a man who once saw a scared and cast-off young man and chose to reach out and caution him about the future. Not to a man who deserved so much better and had been hurt so much. _Perhaps someone should do it. But I am not the man for it._

Sansa put her hand to her mouth then and the color began draining from her face. Jon jumped to his feet and looked about for a container. It was hard to find something for his wife to vomit in within this gilded chamber. Lannisters by nature seemed to have expensive tastes. Martyn grabbed something off the floor--- a gilded bin with a Lion’s Head engraved on it, and thrust it towards Sansa. “Here, use my spittoon.”

Then the Lord of Casterly Rock promptly averted his eyes while his princess vomited.  He went to pour Sansa some water. Jon stood behind his wife, holding her hair back and rubbing her back as she retched. When she finished, Martyn took the spittoon without comment and handed her the water, calling a maid in.

“I’m sorry, My Lord,” Sansa said, clearly embarrassed.

“It’s nothing, Your Grace,” Martyn said gently. “Nallette was the same way. Look… You go rest. Prince Jon… If you wouldn’t mind writing to Lord Allyrion or Lady Missandei… I’ll try to find something for Tyrion if I can. I’ll send Maester Tarek to your rooms to examine Princess Sansa if she needs it.”

“Have him go through your library and research inheritance law instead,” Jon said, carefully helping his wife to her feet. _It’ll likely help relieve more of her stress._ “This isn’t out of the ordinary. But I thank you for your concern.” 

“Don’t,” Martyn said, looking down at his feet with guilt. “I’m willing to bet this has caused you both an untold amount of worry. Especially you, Princess. But I thank you for your guidance. Whatever you may need while you’re here… it’s yours.”

_We won’t be here for long. No longer than we need to make sure Tyrion is safe here._

Jon tenderly led his wife back to their chambers: sunlit rooms with green papered walls and a large balcony overlooking a private garden. Jon helped her down onto the bed. She looked up at him and promptly burst into tears.

“What is it, Sweetling?”

“Jon… Harry and I married almost immediately after Tyrion was declared dead. Our marriage may not have been valid. Which means Eddie…”

His blood went cold. “Tyrion never touched you…”

“Tyrion never consummated the marriage, it’s true. But… The marriage wasn’t formally dissolved on those grounds. If we could get him to agree to an annulment, then it won’t be an issue, but…”

Jon sighed. “Of course Tyrion will agree.”

“No, Jon, I don’t think he will. He’s angry with me. I don’t know why, but he is. He wants to hurt me, Jon.” She started to sob.

“Hush,” he said. “No, Tyrion won’t hurt you. I’ll speak to him, Sansa. He’ll understand. He’s kind, remember?”

“He _was_ kind, Jon.”

The prince got on the bed and went to rub her back and shoulders. That was it. _She needs to get out of here. Her and the children._ Sansa had hoped to look into Martyn’s younger son, Tyrek, as a possible suitor for Naerys. So she wouldn’t be happy. But they needed to leave. Jon wasn’t going to let her stay around the source of so much stress. He would wait as long as it took to insure that Tyrion would be safe and happy and free at Casterly Rock, but his family would move on.

“Look, why don’t you take the children and… travel to Dragonstone?” He asked, trying to keep his tone soothing. “Or even Winterfell. You’d be welcome to stay at nearly every Keep in the Seven Realms, save for maybe on the Iron Islands. Go somewhere where there isn’t so much around to bother you. Remember what Nani and Grandmaester Merys said. You need to take it easy." 

“What about you?” 

“I’ll take care of Tyrion here and then join you.”

“No.” 

“…Sansa…”

“…No. Last time you left me while I was pregnant, you left for Pyke and came back mentally traumatized. You’re staying with me. You promised me. I stayed with you while riding with the khalasaar when I carried Robb, remember? We stay together when making a babe. Especially when we could lose this one so easily.”

He reached out and placed a hand on her belly. “Sweetling---“ 

Her eyes welled up and she placed her hand firmly atop his. “We’ve lost two, Jon. _Two._ I’m not as young as I was, and perhaps I’m not as strong. That’s why I need you with me. We do everything together, remember? The Lone Wolf dies…” 

“…But the pack survives.” He pressed a kiss to her lips, then to her belly. They got on their sides, facing one another.

There was a knock on the door. Jon groaned and turned over. “Who is it?”

“It is Aemon, Brandon, and Naerys, Papa,” their daughter’s voice called out. “May we come in?”

Jon bid them to enter. Aemon and Brandon, all of eight and less carefully mannered than their sister, rushed in ahead, hurrying up on the bed. “Easy!” Jon and Sansa cried out. Jon sat up and scowled at his two younger sons. “Remember, your mother is growing a baby inside of her, you have to be careful.”

Aemon, who looked every bit as Targaryen as his name with his silver-gold hair and violet eyes, looked a bit more chastened. Brandon, as Tully looking as they came, just groaned and kept to the foot of the bed with his brother. Naerys helped her mother sit up, standing by her.

“May I touch your belly?” She asked. Sansa smiled and nodded.

“Where’s your brother?” 

“Out with Willem and Tyrek in the godswood, giving them a lecture on the Old Gods.”

“He’s so boring,” Brandon sniped, rolling his eyes. “When are we going to meet the Imp?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Mind your tongue! We don’t call him that!”

Out of all his children, Brandon was the most difficult. Despite his Tully looks, he had every bit of the fire one would expect from a Targaryen and all the wolfsblood of a Stark. He was the polar opposite of his twin, who was more withdrawn and quiet, very much like his father and older brother. Brandon was a male, red-headed Arya.

“It is unkind, Brandon,” Sansa said nervously. Naerys glared though. 

“He’s the hero of Blackwater!”

“Oh, pipe down with your Blackwater Bay nonsense, who cares?”

“Quiet!” Sansa snapped. “Brandon, lots of people care. _I_ cared, when I awaited the result of the battle in Maegor’s Holdfast.  For all that Stannis’s victory might have freed me from the Lannisters, I had no desire to be in a castle while it was sacked. And for the record, I don’t know when you’re going to meet Lord Tyrion. I’m not sure if I _want_ you to meet him.”

Brandon made a disgruntled noise. “But that’s not fair! Naerys and Robb got to meet him!”

“Well I---- _What do you mean ‘Naerys and Robb?’”_ Sansa looked alarmed and glanced at their daughter, who was examining the Myrish carpet with great interest all of a sudden. “Do you know anything about this?”

Naerys gave Brandon such a fiery glare that for a moment, she looked almost exactly like her great-aunt Daenerys. “You little---!”

“Naerys!”

“Yes, but it wasn’t Robb’s fault. It was mine,” she admitted bitterly. “He came to get me the other day. I just wanted to meet him so badly!”

Sansa grabbed their daughter’s wrist so sharply it even shocked Jon. “Daenerys Stark Targaryen, you are _not_ to go near Tyrion Lannister without express permission and an approved escort again, understand? I cannot believe you would disobey me like that! You are a young lady now, you cannot just go and visit random strange men! Disobey me again, and I will have you packed off to Dragonstone by nightfall, understand me? I swear it by the Old Gods and New!”

Everyone looked at Sansa in alarm. Naerys’s jaw was practically on the floor.

Jon reached over and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Sansa, calm down.”

“No! I mean it!” Sansa snapped. “Naerys, do you understand me? Do you?!”

The color drained from their daughter’s face. “Y-yes, Mother, I understand. I’m sorry.”

“You are getting too old for this sort of foolishness. You will be Queen of the Seven Realms someday and you’re on the brink of maidenhood, Naerys. It is time to stop acting like a child!”

Naerys shrank back. “Yes Mother.” Her eyes started welling up with tears. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I didn’t mean to upset you so much. I just wanted to learn some things.”

“Learn from books. Learn from your parents and tutors. Learn from mistakes. There’s nothing Tyrion Lannister has to teach you worth learning that you can’t learn from anyone else.” 

Naerys nodded weakly. Jon took Sansa’s arm and pulled her grasp away. “Sansa, Sweetling…” 

This reaction troubled him. _It must just be the babe, right?_

Now, not even Brandon was speaking up. Both of the boys were looking uncomfortably at their laps. Jon patted them on the shoulders. “Go play.” 

Sansa shrank back as the boys ran off, looking troubled. “I’m sorry… I don’t know what came over me. Naerys… Just… Just keep away from Lord Tyrion for now, alright? I know you’re eager to know that hero from your books but… Sometimes the truth doesn’t always fit what you’ve read or heard. I just don’t want you hurt.”

“Why would I get hurt, Mother?” Their daughter asked, distressed. “I don’t understand. Do you think Tyrion’s a traitor?” 

“No, but---“

“Then why would you worry about him hurting me? I thought you said he was kind.” 

Sansa shut her eyes and cringed, then she looked at Jon. “My love, why don’t you go write those letters in the solar? You know, the ones for Missandei and Allyrion? I’m sure Martyn would be very eager to have you send them as soon as possible.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jon,” she said, her tone heavy with significance. “I think Naerys and I should speak alone.”

Jon got up and gave his confused looking daughter a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see you in a little bit, Sweetling.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

Guilt hammered away at her as she tried to address her daughter. Naerys’s admission sent her into a panic, and she wasn’t exactly sure why.

 _But it is time we had this discussion regardless. She’s twelve and heir to the Iron Throne. It’s time._  

The Lady of Winterfell looked her daughter over. Every child was beautiful to their mothers, but her daughter truly was lovely. Naerys stood before her in her rose colored gown, chewing her lip nervously--- a habit Sansa remembered her older brother having as a child. Her children could be these bittersweet pockets of memory sometimes.

But Naerys represented the future in a thousand ways. Before long, Sansa knew her daughter would be a stunning woman. She’d possessed a bit of lanky awkwardness as a child, but was growing out of that now. The girl had her father’s thick dark hair, full lips, and deep expression in her violet eyes, but possessed her mother’s jawline, cheekbones, and creamy skin. Height she inherited from both her parents. 

 _And she’s starting to grow a figure,_ Sansa thought, her heart sinking. Naerys wasn’t as developed as her mother had been at that age--- and Sansa thanked the gods for that every day. But recently, breasts had begun to sprout from her chest. She’d not yet flowered, but Sansa imagined that wasn’t too far off.

 _Couldn’t she flower a little less gracefully? With spots and sweats and clumsiness? Is it not enough that she’s the greatest heiress in the world?_ It wouldn’t be long before suitors started calling outright.

Sansa herself had initiated a few encounters for her daughter, to gauge Naerys’s interests in some suitable young men and get a head start on the inevitable onslaught of suits from the families of Westeros. Martyn himself had a son close in age to Naerys. Tyrek was a gentle sort who got along well with others, exactly the sort of young man Sansa wanted her daughter acclimating herself to.

But it was clear encouraging new friendships wasn’t enough. _It’s time we spoke._

She hesitated, though, thoroughly uncomfortable and not sure how to approach the subject. Naerys wasn’t completely ignorant, of course. She knew the basic mechanics of how a husband and wife “made a baby”, as they tended to put it. During a bath with Robb when she was three, she asked what was wrong with the space between her brother’s legs and why “he has that thing poking out.” At seven, they caught her and Roger Ryswell’s son, Darry, playing a game of “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours” in Winterfell’s godswood.

Naerys was less innocent than Sansa was at that age, but that didn’t mean too much.

The problem was, Sansa wasn’t sure how to go much deeper. She’d had a few talks with her lady mother and Septa Mordane as a child, but beyond that…

“Sweetling, I’m sorry if I seemed harsh. I just… You’re getting to an age where there are things you need to know. Things you have to be wary of, especially in regards to men and boys, do you understand?” 

“A-Alright.”

Sansa moved over and patted the place next to her. “Here, why don’t you sit with me?” 

Naerys cautiously climbed onto the bed, still chewing her lip. Sansa patted her shoulder. “Sweetling, by now you may have noticed some… _Changes_ that may be going on. You’re beginning to flower into womanhood now, and it is time you learned some things. Before long, there are going to be a lot of men and boys who are going to start seeing you differently. Not as a girl, but as a young woman, and you ought to be prepared for that.”

A look of panic came over her daughter’s eyes. “Mama, I know about that.”

Sansa hesitated. “Well, how much do you know exactly?”

The twelve-year-old shifted uncomfortably. “As much as Aunt Dany was willing to tell me.”

 The Lady of Winterfell nearly fainted. Daenerys was married at thirteen to a Dothraki Horselord and was educated in the arts of lovemaking by a girl from a Lysene Pleasure House. _Oh, the Seven save me._. “Aunt… Aunt Dany? _The queen_ spoke to you?”

“Well, I only have the one Aunt Dany,” Naerys replied, rolling her eyes. “But yes. After my last Name Day. We were riding together outside the city and I started asking her questions because my bosom hadn’t started coming in yet and---“

“And she---?”

“She told me to ask her about whatever I wanted to know. She said I’m a smart, strong girl, and I ought to know these things before I flowered. By the way, you told me that to couple, a lord lays atop his lady. But Aunt Dany says that’s not the only---“

“---Stop!” Sansa shuddered. _For pity’s sake, she’s still a maid!_ She hadn’t expected this. Sansa tried to mentally prepare herself. “Alright, just--- Tell me what she told you.”

Several minutes later, Sansa had her head in her hands. Her daughter spoke in a tone that bounced between giggles and a detached, factual manner.

“---And so that’s how boys work, basically. They get all worked up, then they get you all worked up and wet between the legs, and they put it in you. And they think about it a _lot._ I believe it, too. I’ve seen---“

“---Enough!” But there was one thing missing. Sansa peeked out from between her fingers. “Naerys… Did your aunt happen to mention that… it isn’t just very young men?”

“Aunt Daenerys says they cool down a bit as they get older, that they get a bit smarter and more sensible about the whole thing. After a while, it’s just about making heirs, right?”

“Did your aunt tell you this?” That didn’t sound like Dany. 

“No, she just said they calm down. I just figured that’s what she meant. And anyways, by that time, I’ll be older and wiser as well, so---“

“---Naerys, I’m afraid--- It won’t just be men your age that look at you like that.” Sansa forced the words out. She didn’t want it to be true. Not for her girl. “You know I was married to Lord Tyrion, right?”

“Yes, but he’s _much_ older _._ Much older than you were, and your marriage was never consummated, right? He was already fairly old by then--- nearly thirty, right?” Her daughter cringed and whistled. “I bet you were thankful he was too old to care about---“

“---Naerys, no. He wasn’t too old to care about it. Men don’t stop caring about it. Some----a few--- get more controlled as they grow older, but they never stop caring about it.”

Her daughter wrinkled her pretty little nose. “So, it was because you were so young then?”

“Men his age and older looked at me, wanted me when I was no older than you are now,” Sansa admitted, finally getting to the painful truth she’d been trudging towards during the entire discussion. “I was a bit more… developed… than you are. And I was unprotected after my father died. I got a lot of… attention, and attempts, from much older men. You remember the name Littlefinger, yes?”

Naerys’s eyes darkened. Yes, she knew. To an extent. “That horrible, monstrous man who kept you prisoner all of those years.”

Sansa swallowed and nodded. “Well, he… He was old enough to be my father, but he wanted me all the same. So he…” _No, she doesn’t need to know that. Not yet._ “He told me he wanted me. Other older men had tried things before. And he wasn’t the last to do so, either.”

Her daughter put her arms around her. “Oh, Mama! I’m so sorry!" 

“So you see, Sweetling,” continued her mother, stroking her daughter’s dark curls, “That’s why I’m so concerned. I was targeted for that sort of thing by men, young and old alike, once I started blossoming. It’s why I’m so concerned about you being alone with men unattended. It’s why I don’t want you sneaking off to speak with someone like Tyrion Lannister. He never forced himself on me, but he had a reputation for seeking out young women of… questionable morals. I would be devastated if you were to fall prey to the attentions of some man with poor intentions. It isn’t just boys. You have to be wary of older men, too. They don’t always want someone their age. They… they like young maidens. If something were to happen to you, I’d never forgive myself. Do you understand?”

Naerys looked up at her mother then. A period of silence passed. “Yes, Mama. I understand. I promise I’ll be careful. I just can’t believe… A man of _thirty_ even?”

Sansa nodded. “Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty.”

Her eyes were huge. “And they all try to take young maidens?”

“Not _all._ They like women in general. There are many good men who prefer women their own age. An attraction to young ladies remains, but there are many who are more than happy to indulge their passions with their lady wives and women of an appropriate age group. Not all men are going to hurt you, but… It’s something to be wary of. It’s why maidens your age are encouraged to keep a chaperone and _be honest with their parents._ ”

Naerys pulled away. “So there _are_ men who keep to their wives.”

“A few. Good men do.”

“But they still… They still feel like---? And not just to make babes?”

“Not just to make babes. Making love can be a wonderful thing with the right person--- the one you’re married to. Even if it doesn’t result in a babe. When you’re with the right person, the marriage bed can be a lovely place. And of course, your father, aunt, and I would make _absolutely sure_ that you didn’t marry the wrong person and would have a happy life. A good man that you know and care for, brave and gentle and strong. That’s many years away, of course. But it’ll be someone who can make you happy for many years. Years that will bring babes and years that won’t." 

 _There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?_ She felt a bit of relief. _The worst is over._

“So even after they’re no longer young, they’ll want to share a bed, even if it doesn’t make a babe?”

“Yes. People have needs.” At that, Sansa felt a little bit of laughter come to her. _Thirty. Honestly._ “Even old ones.  Not just men, but women, too. It’s normal. But it doesn’t just end when you’re fully grown up.” 

Another long pause. Then Naerys began looking up and down, gradually looking more and more shocked and uncomfortable. Sansa couldn’t quite figure out what it was, though.

There was a soft knock on the door and Jon poked his head in. “Am I interrupting?”

“What is it?” Sansa said, eyes still on her daughter. Naerys slipped off the bed, shaking somewhat. Jon entered the room and held up some parchment.

“I just finished the letters, and thought you might wish to look them over.” He looked at their daughter and smiled. “Sweetling, are you alright?”

Naerys then shot him a hard look. Then she turned her head, eyes fastening on her mother, then her mother’s curved belly. She began looking back and forth between them.

“—Naerys?”

Sansa realized then what it was. _Oh gods no._

Without a word, Naerys hurried toward the door. She paused briefly to look her father up and down, shuddered, and bolted.

Jon looked at his wife, astonished. “What was that about?”

Sansa reddened. “I think… I think I may have accidentally let our little princess know that we’re not utterly frigid. She may have just realized that the two of us very much enjoyed the process of creating her and her siblings and that we might have engaged in such activities for purposes other than duty to the empire.”

Jon dropped the letters.

Dinner that evening proved even more awkward than the meal with Tyrion. As Robb chattered on about telling the Lannister children about the old gods and the Children of the Forest and the First Men, their normally talkative eldest kept her eyes fixed firmly on her plate, which remained full throughout the evening. Every time one of her parents even gestured as if they were about to touch the other, she made a disgusted grunt. By the end of the evening, Sansa couldn’t even look her husband in the eye.

By the time they said goodnight, Naerys looked more disgusted with them than even Tyrion.

 _Gods above,_ Sansa thought wildly as she tugged on her heaviest nightgown, _What in the Seven Hells possessed me to speak of such things with her?_

The image of a dirty male hand grabbing at Naerys’s violet silk in the middle of the night flashed through her mind. Then two mismatched eyes, one black and angry, the other desirous and green. Sansa found herself on her knees and retching.


	4. Stains, Paint, and Webs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion re-enters the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for her beta-work!

Chapter Four: Stains, Paint, and Webs

Tyrion:

He stood in Casterly Rock’s library, a volume under his good arm, and squinted at the wall.

 _Not ugly enough_. The portrait was clearly well paid for, a glimmering Myrish-style portrait that depicted a man who was a light-haired dwarf with mismatched eyes. _Handsome bastard, whoever he is. A Lannister dwarf more Lannister than dwarf._

The painting had a backdrop with a table and chair to make the man’s lack of height clear. But this man also had a fully formed nose, a chiseled jawline, and a glorious mop of wavy golden hair. Even in his youth, Tyrion’s hair had been limp and nearly white. And this man’s eyes, though mismatched, were striking in all the ways Tyrion was always told a man’s eyes should be. The green eye practically glowed. A couple of scars marked his face where his missing nose should have been.  He wore a doublet of velvet crimson emblazoned with a Lannister Lion. A golden axe was strapped to his jeweled belt.

Martyn had shyly informed Tyrion of this likeness. “I hung it in the library, since you always read so much.” A sweet thought, really. Tyrion might have pitied whoever the artist was if not for the hefty sum Martyn probably paid him. Throughout his life, Tyrion watched as Cersei, Jaime, Joffrey, Kevan, Lancel, and even his lord father posed for portraits. Never once was one done of Tyrion. When he was five, a “family” portrait was done with Lord Tywin, the twins, and a recreation of Lady Joanna. It was hung in the great hall. Tyrion did not appear. Lord Tywin didn’t want his son’s ugly, squashed face appearing on the recreation of his family’s history. 

In fact, Tyrion had been the only Lannister not captured on canvas… _Until whatever year this came into being. Where was I when the painter Martyn hired was creating this? Probably lying in a Ghiscari ditch._ He thought of some perfumed artist painting him thus and laughed aloud.

Lord Tywin’s portrait was gone. As were all the myriad of paintings of Jaime, Cersei, Joffrey, Myrcella, and even Tommen. Cersei had her likeness captured dozens of times, a trait Joffrey inherited. She insisted on Jaime doing the same.

There was a hall near the library devoted to the most important Lannister likenesses. The spaces that once held Lord Tywin, Jaime, Cersei, and her children were replaced with images of Martyn and his family. The only one that remained of that set of Lannisters was one of Lady Joanna that was done to celebrate her wedding.

Tyrion used to sit in the halls and stare at his mother’s beautiful likeness. It wasn’t the only image of Lady Joanna in the castle. Lord Tywin adored his wife and had several images of her. Cersei had a locket with a miniature of Joanna in it. When Tyrion was seven, he asked for a miniature of his own so he could touch her face and maybe whisper to his mother at night before bed.

She’d died giving him birth, and he’d never known her. But Tyrion always loved the clever, fierce look in the big green eyes he saw in all those beautiful pictures. Joanna’s painted eyes reminded Tyrion of the looks that Cersei sometimes gave Jaime. He wanted to have part of that, to maybe be able to see that sort of loving look whenever he wished. Maybe have those loving eyes upon him watching over him every night when he fell asleep. Tyrion never slept well, even as a child, and he thought maybe it would help. 

When Tywin heard this request, he gave Tyrion an especially disgusted look. “It is bad enough I have to celebrate the day you came into the world. I am not going to reward you for killing your mother with a trophy.”

He didn’t end up getting many gifts at all that Name Day. Jaime came to his room that night with a little cake and gave him a little carved wooden dragon. They went to go see their mother’s portrait, Jaime pulling Tyrion onto his back and sneaking him out to the hall, a candlestick in hand. They went up to that picture and looked at Lady Joanna, glowing and radiant in ivory and gold. 

“Was she really that beautiful?” Tyrion asked his brother. In the flickering light, the image seemed to take on new life. _That must be what the Maiden looks like,_ the seven year old thought.

“Yes. Like Cersei.” Jaime replied breathlessly. Tyrion began to cry then.

“I’m so sorry I killed her! I killed her! How can such a beautiful lady die to create something as ugly as me?!” And that’s when Tyrion realized that his mother hadn’t looked like the Maiden. The Maiden didn’t exist. No good, pure god like the ones their septon spoke of could exist in a world where something so beautiful could die to create something as hideous as him.

Now, some forty years later, Tyrion tore his eyes away from his own likeness and wept again. _That isn’t me. That isn’t me. The man in that portrait is as much a stranger as my mother was. The man there is strong and handsome and elegant, whatever his height. That man can roar loud enough. I can only sob._

Even the removal of Tywin, Jaime, Cersei from the halls of Casterly Rock, even this idealized version of Tyrion being hung instead couldn’t change things. Sure, there was truly something hilarious as a man as psychotically obsessed with his family legacy being pulled from the walls of his own home. There was something even more hysterical about his detested younger son getting trussed up and painted and put in a prominent place in his favorite room of the castle. But that couldn’t make the memories go away. That couldn’t make his nose grow back or his hip or shoulder work properly. And it couldn’t remove the memories of those lonely Name Days, or Tysha’s tear-stained face as the guards raped her, of Cersei and Tywin’s disgusted looks whenever they saw Tyrion. 

Even with their portraits gone, Tyrion felt their eyes upon him wherever he looked. He saw them in every lion that decorated the furniture and tapestries and moldings in the castle--- and there were a lot of them. And when he passed Joanna’s portrait, he saw Cersei’s eyes.

And though Martyn had hung this farce of an image and spoke to him in a gentle tone and promised him all the wine he could drink, Tyrion felt as welcome at the Rock as he had as a child.

It wasn’t as different as he imagined, really. From the moment news came of Jaime joining the Kingsguard to that fateful meeting in the Small Council chamber after Blackwater, Tyrion had wondered about Casterly Rock. _Is it mine? Will it be mine?_ But even then, Tyrion knew, deep down, what the awful answer was.

Even with Tywin gone, that hadn’t changed. Yes, the portraits of his old family were gone. In their place was another perfect, golden set of Lannisters he wasn’t part of. They decorated the hall. Tyrion still didn’t. Even the picture that was supposed to be of him wasn’t true, and it was placed elsewhere, separate from the rest of the family.

The image of this handsome dwarf was opposite a large window that overlooked the main gardens. This handsome dwarf was bathed in the sun. Tyrion could feel the heat of it on his back, but none of the shine. It made sweat form on the back of his neck. 

When Martyn informed Tyrion of the portrait, Lord Tywin’s son asked his cousin about the various images of his dear father and siblings. Martyn glanced at the ground and said they were taken down.

“Oh? Do you still have them? Because I’d be forever grateful if I could have them. I’d take great pleasure in doing quite a few things to Cersei’s image in particular.”

His cousin left the room, face red as a beet.

 _You’d never do a thing like that, would you?_ Tyrion asked the handsome painted dwarf. _I bet you’re perfect and honorable and noble and would never dream of such a thing. I bet your heart is as undamaged as your nose. Maybe a couple of nicks or marks here or there. After all, you still would have grown up as short as I. But still fully intact. Maybe your heart and tongue are as golden as your pretty hair. Fitting, for a Lannister._

The man in that image looked ready to ride a dragon and help a beautiful queen conquer and save the Seven Kingdoms. _Not me, though. I’m the ugly, stunted thing that tried and failed and spent nearly twenty years in a mad, drunken stupor. As Hugor Hill or Yollo, depending on what I could remember at the time. Perhaps I am Hugor Hill or Yollo. Maybe you’re the real Tyrion Lannister._ He’d looked at some of the books little Princess Naerys mentioned. The man spoken of there was a golden hero. All chains and wildfire and false accusations and random acts of kindness. A man that fitted the image before him. _Paint on canvas. Ink on parchment. Words on wind. A collection of funny quotes and great deeds._

He wiped his eyes. He wished that was the reality. _If I were truly dead, that was what would be left of me. A legacy to be proud of. Father would be furious._ Sarella Sand in particular had torn Tywin’s reputation to shreds with all the passion one would expect of a daughter of the Red Viper. After reading some of the passages, Tyrion felt compelled to check if the volume was inked in his father’s blood. _But if he saw what he’d reduced his younger son to, he might have given one of his famously rare smiles._ Tyrion cursed.

He left the library, still cursing. As he walked through the halls, he felt the lions watching him. He passed the portraits and very determinedly did not look at them. But he could almost feel their eyes following him, eyeing him like prey. _Ready to tear me apart, all of them._

Tyrion found the door to Martyn’s quarters--- once Lord Tywin’s--- and pounded his fist against it. _I’d have never dared do such a thing as a child._ His cousin opened the door quickly, green eyes wide. “Cousin?” 

He walked in, glancing around. Martyn’s tastes were surprisingly understated for a man who dressed so well. A lot of the old oak furniture from his father’s days was still present, but a number of the fine tapestries were gone--- save for one of the Lannister family tree. He noted with amusement that his siblings’ names were torn out. _One might think I was Lord Tywin’s only child._ The pleasure over this was short-lived when he noticed a date of death underneath his name. He swallowed heavily, then met his cousin’s eyes again. Martyn still stood at the door, looking at him anxiously.

“I wanted to apologize for the trouble I’ve caused.”

“Oh, no,” Martyn lied. Tyrion held up a hand. 

“I’m of no use to anyone here. As you’ve worked so hard to remind people, I have known some triumph in King’s Landing. I thought perhaps I might find a place at court and represent Lannister interests there. Earn my keep a bit. You’ve been kind to me, Martyn. I’d like to use what’s left to me to repay that kindness.”

It was a mad proposition. But Martyn’s reaction could tell Tyrion a great deal. Did his cousin trust him? Would he take this as a sign of submission? Just how well had his cousin improved the Lannisters’ status with the royal family? Was he powerful enough to secure Tyrion a position at court? Did he already have a representative for the family at court and if so, whom?

Over the last several days, Tyrion had been trying to get a good lock on what kind of man his cousin had become. His observations would have told him “kind to a fault” if not for the fact that Martyn had apparently taken down two different families seeking to overtake House Lannister. The man had his limits. _He’s also not too happy with how I’ve conducted myself._

“Cousin, I’m afraid… Perhaps court isn’t the best environment for you.” 

“This is hardly a good one either,” Tyrion pointed out. He glanced furtively at the carved wooden lion on one of the end tables. Every piece of art in Casterly Rock was a masterwork, and so the eyes truly seemed to see. He went to the drink cupboard on which the statue stood and went to pour himself a cup of wine, feeling his cousin’s eyes upon him as well.

“It’s just that I’ve worked so hard to improve our House’s reputation… And you’ve already said some rather coarse things to Princess Sansa…”

Tyrion turned. “I will apologize, if you wish. After that, I shall be as gallant as Prince Aemon.”

Martyn gave him a doubting look. Tyrion faked offense. “You think because I am a dwarf that I cannot conduct myself with honor?”

He felt a bit of guilt at the wounded look on his cousin’s face. But there was a flash of anger there.

“I believe you cannot conduct yourself with grace. Not because you’re a dwarf, but because you drink copiously and propositioned the prince’s wife right in front of His Grace.”

 _She was my wife, once._ Tyrion ground his teeth. “As I said, I shall be happy to apologize.” _Even though she started it._ “I’ll prove my manners tonight at dinner, if you wish. I’ll be the soul of kindness.”

“Even if you were, what makes you imagine for a second that you’d be permitted to attend court? Tyrion, your behavior--- The prince and princess may see it as an insult if I asked.”

“It’s the queen’s court. Ask her.” 

Martyn bit his lip and suddenly started looking everywhere but at his cousin.

“What? Are the lowly lions not good enough to write the queen? And here I was thinking you’d done your job to improve things for us.”

“It isn’t that. It’s just, well… The queen is the personal sovereign to several domains, not just the seven realms. As such, she is a busy woman. Thus, new posts on the Small Council have been created since you left Westeros, Tyrion. One of those offices happens to be for managing and leading the court of King’s Landing.” 

“A master of the court?” Tyrion mused, rubbing his jaw. It actually made sense. One of the few times Tyrion actually ever felt sympathy for his sister was when he witnessed all of the work she often had to do managing Robert’s court and dealing with his guests. That was normally the job for the queen, but the new queen was essentially a female king with a far larger set of lands. Ruling an empire and running the social circles of King’s Landing were impossible jobs for one person alone to hold. “So who is he?”

“ _She_ is the woman you invited to suck your cock at breakfast three days ago, Tyrion. Princess Sansa is Mistress of the Court. Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms and Slaver’s Bay in everything but name. Oh, and for the record, she also handles diplomacy for the empire in general. Her, Prince Jon, the queen’s herald Lady Missandei, our Lord Hand Willas Tyrell, and his sister Margaery, who also happens to now be Lady Tully and the princess’s aunt by marriage.”

Tyrion paused and took a long sip. _So she really is that influential._ He’d feared as much. _She’s basically become everything Cersei wished to be._ “Still… I might be able to work around that.” _If there any Dornishmen at court… I made an alliance with them once._ “Willas Tyrell is Hand? Who is his wife?”

“Wylla Manderly of White Harbor. Another northern lady—sorry, _Magna---_ Val of the Dreadfort--- she’s a Wildling. It’s essentially an open secret that Magna Val is paramour to Princess Arianne of Dorne. Speaking of whom, has a daughter intended for Lord Willas’s heir, Benning. The Martells and Tyrells are no longer feuding. A lot of that is thanks to a few close friendships that have sprung up between Ellaria Sand and Lord Willas, and the two youngest Sand Snakes being close with the Lady of Starfall. And, of course, the efforts of---“

“---My little wife?” 

“You have no wife, Cousin.” Martyn’s tone became decidedly sharper with that. 

“My little former wife,” amended Tyrion. But inside he was fuming.  _Yes I do. Or I did. My father stole her from me._

Martyn nodded solemnly. “Yes.” 

He remembered the fights breaking out in the Red Keep between Tyrell and Martell men. Prince Oberyn coming to him about the Queen of Thorns branding Ellaria Sand “The Viper’s Whore.” Long nights pouring over seating arrangements to make sure that the two factions weren’t seated too close to one another, while showing the prince all the respect and honor he was due, accommodating his paramour in some way, while also not causing an uproar about sitting a bastard paramour among the highest nobility. The long nights when his eyes felt like they’d start to bleed worrying over riots and duels breaking out in the city and the Keep. Trying to keep the Red Viper from spitting venom.

Thoughts of Oberyn led to thoughts of crushed skulls and death sentences.

It was then he noticed the lions on the moldings near the ceiling. And carved into the armrests of a couple of chairs. And on one of the few remaining tapestries, which depicted a lioness with her cubs. All these lions were staring at him. Snarling at him.

Tyrion began to shake. He dropped his cup and cursed. The spill reached a cream colored Myrish rug, staining it red. Like blood. Tyrion thought of what one of his masters might have done if he’d spilled wine on one of their rugs. He flinched and glanced up at Martyn. His cousin didn’t even seem to notice or care, he was looking at Tyrion in concern.

The second son of Lord Tywin couldn’t stand the pity. So he looked elsewhere and tried to brush this off. “Tell me more.” He needed to know more. He had to know everything. He’d wasted enough time in a drunken stupor. _I have to know who is friends with who. I have to know why._

There was a third tapestry, one which depicted all of the sigils of the Great Houses frolicking in peace. Even the trout in the water jump above the water, and the kraken that swam beside it raised its tentacles seemingly in joy as a lion, a wolf, and a stag frolicked together in a field of roses. A dragon and a hawk flew overhead as a red sun shone. It looked very new. 

Martyn hesitated before continuing. He didn’t say a word about the stain, which kept spreading. “Lady Missandei Naathia is a woman you should know. She is the queen’s herald and Mistress of Letters. She’s basically the royal scribe. You’ll need to know her. She’s been with Queen Daenerys since the Dragon Queen first entered Astapor. She’s also Lady of a holdfast now called Unsullied Keep. It’s just a bit North of Greywater Watch.”

Tyrion kept watching the wine spread. The red just kept going and going.

“Lady Naathia also has a brother, Marselen, one of the main commanders of the Unsullied forces. Unsullied Keep serves as his base. He commands all the law forces north of the Crownlands. These two former slaves, one a eunuch, have an established House of their own. The queen raised them to powerful positions. And their addition to the aristocracy means that Lady Missandei’s descendants may never have to know the sort of bondage the lady herself witnessed as a child. The House of Naathia is established, founded by former slaves. And they are considered Northmen now.  Your former wife’s bannermen. Lady Missandei is even betrothed to one of the Glovers. So you see, Cousin, you really should have learned to watch your tongue.”

 “Any other significant friends I should know of?” Tyrion asked. 

“The Lady of the Gates, Myranda Royce, and her husband, Lord Patrek Mallister of Seagard. There are, of course, the Daynes. Lady Dayne is a close confidant of the princess and it is said Lord Edric is very close friends with Lady Arya. The Princess also has very strong ties with the Waynwoods of Ironoaks, and many of the Houses of the Riverlands. The current Lord of the Vale, Gilwood Hunter Arryn, owes his power at least partially to the princess as well.” 

 _How much wine did I pour in that damn cup?_ Tyrion wondered, growing angrier by the second. The stain kept going. _Is it going to soak the entire rug?_ The thing would have to be dyed. Tyrion was forced to dye things before. He was briefly owned by a fabric trader. He couldn’t exactly remember when, though. He just remembered how his feet were cut up and scraped, and how he was forced to crush berries in a vat and how the juice stung the wounds. How his blood mixed with the dye. 

“Keep going.” His little wife had clearly adopted quite a few people into her little wolf pack. _She’s a Stark who has made friends in the court of Mad Aerys’s daughter. Of course, I was the brother of the man who slew Mad Aerys, and I sought to do the same._ He might be able to do that still. He just needed to know what he’d be getting into. 

“Then there is the prince. Prince Jon is personally very close with Asha Greyjoy of Pyke. He helped her reunite with her two bastard sons years ago and he was a guest at her wedding. The current Master of Ships, Davos Seaworth, and his liege lady Shireen Baratheon of Storm’s End are very loyal to the prince as well. Patrek Mallister is also a friend. Prince Jon also has friends among the archmaesters of the Citadel and his aunt’s khalasaar. Barristan Selmy is still alive and Lord Commander of the Queensguard, and he and Prince Jon often drink with Lord Seaworth, one of the other Queensguards, and Lord Allyrion, who serves as Master of Laws. Oh, and the two youngest Sand Snakes were the royal couple’s wards.”

 _Not as much like poor Ned Stark as his appearance would suggest then. Gods above, who taught that awkward boy to network in such a way? He could barely keep his fellow Night’s Watch initiates from strangling him in his sleep._ Then Tyrion rubbed his temple. The answer was obvious. _Martyn’s just recited a list long enough to tell you exactly who taught him to do that._

He remembered watching his little bride at Joffrey’s wedding, charming Uncle Kevan and Lancel. He remembered how his fragile, withered, wounded cousin beamed. _I was watching a master in the making. All those connections… All the ambition of Cersei with all of the sense my sister lacked. She took all that power, and she knew what to do with it once she had it: she used it to make others happy that she has it._

 _A smart Cersei. A smart Cersei with a hundred allies. A smart Cersei with a hundred allies and doting husband who has fifty more._ Tyrion counted off the keeps and offices his former wife and the former bastard had under their sway. _Everything in the North, Dragonstone, Pyke, Riverrun, Highgarden, Sunspear, the Eyrie, Storm’s End, Starfall, Godsgrace, the Gates of the Moon, Ironoaks, Longbow Hall, Seagard, Rainwood… Basically every place that a person could want, and they’ve got Martyn, so Casterly Rock as well. They’re inches from the Iron Throne on top of that. They’ve also got the Dragon Queen, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, the Hand of the Queen, posts of their own, the entire court of the Red Keep, the Master of Laws, the court scribe, and the Master of Ships. And all this influence is spread out all over the Seven Realms. Oh, and fucking dragons as well. Perfect._

This wasn’t Cersei filling up every post with unqualified loyalists and alienating everyone outside the immediate Lannister sphere. This was long-reaching, this was a legion of allies. A legion of allies and dragons. The sort of web of influence that Queen Rhaenys Targaryen had dreamt of creating when she forced the Great Houses to intermarry. _Only this time, it worked, and they have Dorne as well. Rhaenys Targaryen would soak her petticoats._

“… What about Master of Coin?”

“Mistress of Coin. Lady Tully.”

“… Master of Whispers?”

“A Velaryon bastard. Incidentally, the half-brother of that pirate Cersei handed a fleet of ships to. His brother is still a pirate king.”

“And I suppose he’s married to Lady Arya.”

“No. Not at all. Lady Arya is wed to a son of House Umber.”

Tyrion groaned. “What are this bastard’s connections?’

“He deals in everyone’s secrets but his own. And he counts his connections as a secret.” 

 _Another Varys then._ Varys proved an unexpected ally. “What happened to The Spider?”

“He retired and disappeared, seemingly into thin air. He considered his work complete. No one knows where he is.” Martyn’s jaw tightened. “He killed my father.”

“Did he?” Tyrion’s eyes widened, unsure how he should feel about that. Uncle Kevan had been kind to him until Joffrey died, but he was completely Tywin’s dog. “Why?”

“Who knows? The man was mad.”

“Uncle Kevan? He went mad?” _Dealing with Cersei alone, it’s understandable._  

“No! Varys!”

 _Varys was the least mad of all of them._ Tyrion’s stomach sank, though. _It would have been nice to have him._

“The current Master of Whispers was one of his birds. A protégé.” Martyn didn’t seem happy about this. But it pleased Tyrion. _There’s something there, then._ Tyrion made a mental note to write to Illyrio. 

“You mind one of Varys’s protégés succeeding him, but you don’t mind the Starks having a stranglehold on the court? They kept you hostage and killed your brother.” 

“Rickard Karstark killed my brother,” Martyn corrected him. “The Starks treated me well and executed Lord Rickard. Killing my brother’s murderer cost Robb Stark a large chunk of his forces and eventually helped lead to his death. That debt has been repaid. The Starks were much kinder to their Lannister hostage than the Lannisters were to their Stark hostage. I was confined to rooms and given dirty looks. Princess Sansa was stripped and beaten publicly. Joffrey killed her father, Uncle Tywin helped mastermind the murder of her brother and mother, and helped to arrange installing Ramsay Bolton as Lord of Winterfell.”

His cousin’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason you’d even bring up Willem’s death, Tyrion?” 

“I just want to know where you stand. After all, I want to help represent your interests properly.” But Tyrion kept his mind on the Master of Whispers. “What is this protégé’s name?”

“Drystan Waters.”

Varys never mentioned him, but he didn’t really divulge that sort of thing. Tyrion wondered if his successor was the same. _Varys saw potential in me. Perhaps this bastard shall do the same. And if he’s as good as the eunuch… Maybe he could help me find Tysha._

Tyrion nodded. “I’m sorry about the rug, Cousin.”

Martyn glanced down. “It looks better red. I’ll have it dyed. Cousin, why do you want to go to court?”

“To represent Lannister interests. Did you ever wonder how I escaped King’s Landing?”

“Yes.” Martyn’s eyes flashed eagerly.

“Machinations of Varys the Spider,” Tyrion replied, “He believed I could provide invaluable council to the Dragon Queen. He saved my life to see me do that, and in doing so he took a big risk. I feel I owe it to him to fill that purpose.”

“What makes you think that you can?”

 _With my mind, of course. And the one way I was always able to make a woman smile._ “I’ll need to borrow some gold.”

Two days later, Tyrion was walking in the west-facing garden of Casterly Rock. Sansa Stark sat upon a pavilion with Martyn’s wife and some other ladies. Tyrion had looked into them. One was Carellen Dayne, Lady of Starfall and daughter of the Smallwoods of Acorn Hall. She was a beautiful young woman with innocent blue eyes and golden hair. She also apparently had a bit of sordid history, sordid history that involved Prince Jon.

With her was one of the famous Sand Snakes, Loreza Sand. When she looked at Tyrion, he saw Oberyn Martell’s eyes and his heart skipped a beat.

Another was a Dothraki woman, a healer by the name of Nani with dusky skin and coarse grey hair. She observed him carefully, quietly surveying his limp and his scars. She made him uncomfortable.

Tyrion was well dressed in a new doublet of wine colored velvet. His boots had lifts in them. Dressed like this, he felt a bit more like a son of Casterly Rock than a slave or a drunk.

“Pardon, my ladies, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, bowing. He noticed how every one of them stiffened. Loreza Sand seemed to reach within her skirts. Carellen Dayne and Nallette Lannister grimaced outright. Nani watched him with fascination. Sansa’s face was a mask. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but I felt that I could no longer let this wait.”

“What, exactly?” Nallette snapped. Out of everyone at the Rock, she was the one with the least patience for him.

Tyrion ignored her and stepped closer to Sansa. “Your Grace… I have behaved abominably. I wanted to come and make peace with you. Please know that I am profoundly sorry for what has passed between us.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag. “If you would accept this token of my respect and forgive me, I’d be forever grateful.”

“A token?” Sansa asked, eyes widening. Tyrion tried not to smile too much. 

“If you would hold out your hand?” 

She hesitated, but did as asked. Tyrion emptied the contents. An emerald pendant on a long gold chain. The jewel was half the size of a chicken’s egg. It glittered in the springtime sun. Jaime had given Cersei a similar necklace that he bought with the winnings from his first tourney win. Tyrion had given Shae something similar, but with an amethyst. 

He watched her eyes flash as she held the chain up to see the sunlight shine through all the gem’s facets. The other ladies gasped. Even Nallette seemed enraptured. There was silence for a few seconds.

But the peace was broken for Tyrion before it was broken for the other ladies. Sansa’s eyes met his. He saw a flicker there. 

“It’s beautiful, Lord Tyrion,” said the princess in a gracious voice. Then she let the necklace settle in her palm. 

“A beautiful gem for a beautiful woman.”

Sansa slipped the necklace back in its bag. Then she handed it over. “I accept your apology, and I forgive you, but I cannot accept this gift.”

“Why ever not?” He asked, alarmed.

“I do not deserve it. Give it to a woman you wish to give the world to. That is what gifts like this are meant for.” 

Tyrion fumed. _You have no bloody idea what you are talking about, Stupid Girl._ His fury escalated when his former wife stood. He glared up at her, pocketing the gem. _You will not make me feel small._

“Excuse me, My Lord. I must retire.” She curtsied and hurried away. Her ladies followed.

“Of course, Little Wife!” Tyrion called after her. Sansa looked back, her mask falling ever so slightly. Tyrion smirked. _You’re not the only one who can play this game. Don’t let this make you think I’m not an opponent. I was a master at this while you were still clinging to dreams of knights and songs._

But that flicker of worry in Sansa Stark’s face only gave him a moment of satisfaction. So, the necklace burning a hole in his pocket, he went back to the library. He glared up at the portrait of the false Tyrion, then went to the section devoted to the Vale of Arryn.


	5. Lies and Wives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon confronts Tyrion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for her beta-work!
> 
> Guys, we've really advanced the plot here. But we've also got Tyrion reallyy opening up for the first time.

Chapter Five: Lies and Wives

Jon:

The library of Casterly Rock would likely make Sam or Willas Tyrell wet their breeches. It was a high domed room at the top of the Rock with a windowed ceiling and a view of Lannisport. On one end of the room was a portrait of Lann the Clever, on the other, of a dwarf that was meant to be Tyrion.

Jon was not bookish by nature, but he didn’t loathe libraries, and he’d certainly spent more time in them since his children were born. He intended to encourage his children to be great readers, and for the most part, that worked. Naerys and Robb were especially scholarly, and could often be found among the volumes stacked up in King’s Landing, Winterfell, or Dragonstone’s library. For Naerys’s twelfth name day, the family took a trip to the Citadel of Oldtown, which Naerys declared her second favorite name day after the eighth, when Jon first took her dragon riding.

He took pride in the results of his efforts. Many people said his two eldest took after their grandfather Rhaegar with their love of reading. While Jon didn’t always adore comparisons to the man who sired him, on that count, it was encouraging. Aemon was a little less scholarly, and Brandon far less so, but he didn’t stop trying to encourage them.

Though his interest in halls of books had increased, it was with a heavy heart he entered it that evening, a stack of papers burning a hole in the spot on his chest where he’d slipped them into his jerkin. He didn’t want to do what he was about to do. In the early  evening, the setting son left the room in a deep amber glow and the shadows everywhere were heavy.

Jon wished Ghost were with him, but he’d left the direwolf back at the Red Keep to keep an eye on the court. And Martyn didn’t want to host the Direwolf at Casterly Rock. A common occurrence. For absolutely maddening reasons, most lords seemed more open to welcoming a visiting dragon than a direwolf.

He strode in the room quietly, quietly enough that the short, ugly man sitting at the gilded table in front of the dwarf portrait, stacks of books around him, didn’t look up from the volume open before him. Jon saw one of the titles in the heap---- _Edicts of the Eyrie_ by Maester Nestin, and felt his resolve increase. He walked over and slammed the open book shut, startling Tyrion Lannister so much the man jumped in his chair and clutched his chest. Jon might have felt more guilt if not for the title scrawled across the newly closed book --- _Records of the Arryns_.

“You’re going to make my heart stop, My Prince,” Tyrion gasped, settling a bit. “It’s poor manners to slam another man’s book shut.”

“It’s poor manners to call another man’s wife your own and offer her jewelry.” 

There was an awkward pause as Jon stared the dwarf down.

“I wished to make amends,” replied Tyrion. Jon’s jaw clenched.

“No, you wished to cause trouble. I’m not stupid, neither is she, neither are the people we surround ourselves with.” He gestured to the books. “And it appears you wish to cause more.”  

_Why, though?_

Jon tried to calm himself. This man knew devastation, and he deserved better. Or, at least, he had deserved better once. But Jon had little patience towards those who threatened his family.

Tyrion glared. “I merely wish to know where I stand. It may not be very high, but it is vital information all the same. I try to keep myself aware of all vital information.”

Jon grabbed a chair and sat across from the dwarf. The portrait loomed high in the background. “Unfortunately, where you stand is not over Casterly Rock.”

Jon slipped his hand into his jerkin and withdrew the letters. “I wrote to the council a few days ago regarding you and your status. Our Mistress of Letters, Lady Naathia, and our Master of Laws, Lord Allyrion, have looked into the matter for me. When you were born, your father put a request in to King Aerys...”

Tyrion grabbed the papers and looked through them. Jon felt his stomach sink. A queer hatred for Tywin Lannister bubbled up within him. And some for his royal grandfather as well. By the time Tyrion was born, relations between Mad Aerys and Lord Tywin were strained, though the Lord of Casterly Rock still served as Hand. He asked the king to quietly and discreetly cast Tyrion from the succession of the Westerlands, hoping to keep people from knowing so he might find an advantageous match for his younger son, while also insuring Tyrion never became Lord. The Mad King granted his request--- but only years  later, formally signing the agreement a week before he named Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard.

Jon felt Tyrion’s crushing disappointment as he gazed upon the official order of disinheritance, stamped with both Lannister and Targaryen seals. Tyrion leaned forward and cupped his temple, beginning to laugh bitterly.

“Somehow… I always knew. I mean, to think my father… He never left any loose ends, not really. Stupid of me to think he’d wait so long, take such a risk. His dwarf son inheriting his seat… He’d never have let it happen.”

Mismatched eyes met Jon’s. The pain in them was palpable. “I went to him right after the Blackwater, you know. That’s where I lost this,” Tyrion pointed to the hole where his nose was supposed to be. “I had woken in a cramped, tiny little space. I didn’t see my father for a good, long time. And when we spoke, he acknowledged that he’d never have made it to the city in time if my plans hadn’t held Stannis off. He admitted that all of us--- Me, Cersei, Joffrey, Tommen, and, eventually, every Lannister, would have been executed for treason if not for my chain. Then, when I said I wanted to formally be declared his heir, he came out and said it. I was an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning. That I killed my mother to come into this world and for that, he’d never forgive me. He said that neither gods nor men would ever compel him to let me have Casterly Rock.”

Jon looked at his lap. Lady Catelyn only ever said anything near as cruel, and only once, during a time of great pain rather than assured triumph. _Lady Catelyn told me I should have been in Bran’s place as she cried over his bedside. But Tyrion’s own father said this to him after he’d saved the family._ If Jon had to guess, this wasn’t out of character for the man. His skin crawled.

“He promised to reward me some other way,” Tyrion continued. “Then he sent me on my way.”

Jon shuddered. He could guess what that reward was. “He offered to make you Lord Protector of Winterfell in compensation for Casterly Rock.”

“It was that or Lollys Stokeworth. Dull-witted, fat lump of a girl, already pregnant with a bastard after she’d been raped by a mob. Her mother had been after me for months, actually. But Sansa needed to be secured--- the Tyrells were after her.”

 _Willas._ Jon had learned to like the Lord of Highgarden, enough to eventually approve his appointment to official Hand after Jon vacated the acting post. Originally, his choice had been Davos Seaworth, but the Onion Knight had declined the position when his wife took ill. Willas Tyrell was slightly less calculating than his sister, and proved a good friend and advisor. Enough that Jon managed to forget more than once that the man once had designs on his wife. His children’s first ponies came from the man’s stables.

But the thought of Sansa being brokered in such a way sent a chill down his spine. _That or Lollys Stokeworth. Like he’s comparing heifers rather than speaking of people._ Jon didn’t know Lollys Stokeworth--- he was sure he might have met her at some point, but he’d met so many nobles. Whoever she was, she’d not have anything to offer in lands or coin that could compare to Winterfell, and by the description, her person would not make up for it much, at least not in Tyrion’s eyes. He gazed at the older man. Tyrion grabbed a cup of wine next to him and downed it, a ring of red liquid forming under his missing nose.

“I’m afraid that you cannot be rewarded the way your father promised you. But from the sound of it, your father was the sort whose promises were poisoned. He once promised my grandfather he’d protect King’s Landing for him.”

Tyrion bowed his head. “Fair enough. And I realized the truth of the poison soon enough. When I told Sansa that I wouldn’t touch her unless she wanted me to, she replied---“ his breath caught and he spoke bitterly. “---She replied with a question. That question? What if I never want you to?”

A smile came to Jon’s lips. His heart went out to the brave girl his wife once was. Tyrion scowled at him, though. He appeared pained, greatly pained. “Does that amuse you?”

“Amuse me? No. There is nothing funny about what took place between the two of you.” Jon shook his head. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

He looked at this severely broken man, sitting over documents legally proclaiming his father’s lack of love for him. _Hateful father, no mother, a sister who wanted him dead…_ “I’m sorry for… everything.”

“And what would you know of any of it? Have you been branded? Have you been mutilated?” Tyrion pointed to a dark mark under his eye. Jon looked closer. What he’d taken for a scar was indeed a slave’s brand. His blood went cold.

Tyrion straightened up, standing in his chair. “When I was thirteen, I met a girl, Tysha. She was chased by bandits and my brother and I rescued her. Jaime ran off to get the attackers; I stayed with her and offered her comfort. We fell in love. We wed. When my father found out, he told me she was a whore, paid to make a man of me. He proceeded to have his guards throw a piece of silver her way and take her right in front of me. When they finished, when she was covered in silver, Father handed me a gold coin and had me rape her myself. That was the last I ever saw of her. Father had our marriage annulled by the Faith.  Years later, when I fled the capital before I could be executed for a crime I never committed, my brother told me the truth. She was no whore. She was just a girl. A girl who loved me. I confronted my father and asked him where Tysha went. He told me she went ‘wherever whores go.’ I went looking for her. All over Essos. Wherever I went, I asked everyone where whores go. I never got the answer I was looking for.”

Jon lowered his head. By comparison, it almost made his relationship with Ygritte seem normal. “Perhaps… Perhaps she can be found? Talk to Martyn. He might---“

“---As if she’d want me! After what I did to her!” Tyrion hung his head. “She’d want me just as much as anyone else.”

Jon wasn’t sure what to say to this. _I’m sorry,_ but he’d already said that. He couldn’t exactly disagree, either. What woman would accept a man who had taken part in such a thing? His sympathy for this girl, who he had not known of until a few seconds ago, was considerable. “How old was she?”

“Three-and-ten. Same as I. Dark haired. Beautiful.”

Naerys was only a year shy of that. Jon went over to a nearby end table, where he knew some writing supplies were stored. Robb and Naerys had asked Lord Martyn to provide it for them, so they might take notes of what they read for their lessons. He uncorked a vial of ink, sat down, and set to writing. Tysha. Dark hair. Born 272-274. “Tell me of her.”

This injustice could not go unanswered, regardless of how many years had passed. As hopeless as it might be, he felt compelled to at least try.

Tyrion gave a few details, but as he continued, he drank more and more until Jon took the cup from him. The dwarf glared at him as he did this. “That’s the one source of solace I’ve had since I was arrested for my nephew’s murder, I’ll have you know. After a while, I couldn’t even stand the brothels… The way the whores would look at me as I fucked them… _If_ they could look at me. So let me have my wine.”

Jon waited for the ink to dry and rolled the parchment up. “You must drink less, Tyrion. You’re not a slave anymore. You’ll be taken care of, I promise you. But you can’t run around drunk like this. You’ll kill yourself.”

“Maybe I want to die.” The sun had set more, and Jon shuddered as the light disappeared even more. He got up, found some flint nearby, and went to light some candles. He brought one candelabra over to the table and set it down, bringing Tyrion's face back into dim view. The man's face was of a man trying to convince himself.

“I doubt you’d have survived this long if that were true.” Jon looked closer at him. “But what is it that you want?”

“My rights.”

 _I don’t know what those are._ A sad fact, but true. Tywin, monster though he was, had the right to disinherit Tyrion. But it was still so wrong. _And he certainly has no right to Sansa._ Jon felt helpless. “I’ll see what I can do.”

And then he saw that flicker in the dwarf’s eyes. Jon held up a hand. “Stop. Whatever you were about to say, stop. I have limits, Lannister. And… I must warn you. No more of this nonsense with my wife. _My_ wife. Not yours. She was threatened and forced into that sept, practically dragged. And your union was never consummated. That second point has been recognized by law. She is officially considered Harrold Hardyng Arryn’s widow and my wife. The last person to call her Lady Lannister died by dragon fire.” 

He’d not forgotten it. Sansa had stormed into the room, furious. “He presented me with this ridiculous necklace, then called me ‘Little Wife,’” she spat, slamming her hand down on his desk. “I want this finished, Jon. I shall suffer it no longer. If something is not done, I shall take action. I cannot handle this sort of worry now, not now. And if I have to take drastic action to put an end to it before my fears choke the life out of our child, I will do it. Either you do something, or I shall.”

Jon was all too ready to take serious action when she told him. But then the ravens came and the prince found his heart breaking for Tyrion Lannister once more. _How could any man hold so much contempt for his own son?_

There was a point, years ago, when Jon thought his wife would die in childbirth. When the twins came, it proved almost too much. She bled for far, far too long once the boys had left her womb. To the point where the whole city of King’s Landing (and, according to the letters, all of Wintertown as well) held a candle lit vigil for her. It seemed the bleeding would not end, and Sansa lay in bed, white as a sheet, suddenly so small and fragile.

The twins, meanwhile, lay in their cradles, howling like mad. Two strong, healthy boys. In fact, one of the last things Mace Tyrell ever said to his prince was, “It is a great pity, but you have been given two strong sons, so on that count, we can rejoice.” He said this right as Jon was briefly leaving Sansa’s bedside to go comfort Naerys and Robb. Jon had almost strangled the corpulent old man, and it was only the knowledge that the Lord of Highgarden would soon be dead that stopped him. Naerys, on the other hand, kicked the man’s cane out from under him.

It had been hard to look at his two youngest sons during those terrible hours when Sansa hovered between life and death. But not because he hated them. Because he was afraid of hating them. Jon made himself, though, when Sansa asked to see them. He picked them both up from their cradles and carried them to her himself, and showed them to her. The smile that came upon her face when she saw them was enough to forgive them anything. Jon was still sure that their eyes opening to her was what saved her life. But if that hadn’t done it…

Jon couldn’t hate any of his children. They were his. His and Sansa’s. Regardless of what might have happened when they came into the world, regardless of what they may have looked like. His wife had suffered and labored to bring every single one into the world.

How could any man not love a child of his own after such a sacrifice had been made? He’d read that Lord Tywin loved Lady Joanna, but it seemed to Jon that whatever that was, it was selfish love. That the man couldn’t at least love the creature his wife had given her life for made Jon believe that Tywin Lannister was every bit as cruel as they said.

He could love a babe, no matter what. Even if it cost him his wife, he’d love the child she'd given him. But while his own infant would be forgiven for endangering or harming his wife, Jon could not say the same for Tyrion Lannister.

Sansa was still young, but she wasn’t as young as she was, and carrying a child was more dangerous for her than ever. Her peace of mind was paramount to both her survival and the survival of their new child. Jon had brought Sansa to Casterly Rock, away from the capital, for that reason.

They’d lost two babes since the twins were born. One was early, a heavy bleed a few weeks after Sansa glowed and told him the news. The second was far along enough that after Sansa screamed in bed, Grand Maester Merys miserably informed Jon that he’d lost a daughter. The tiny, partially formed Princess Arya was buried in the crypts at Winterfell. For the last two years, Sansa had gone to the Great Sept on that date and lit candles to the Mother for both lost babes. 

After Little Arya, he almost didn’t share her bed again, and then for the longest time only after she’d started taking her moon tea daily. This was the last time they were willing to try.

If Tyrion continued to endanger Sansa and her unborn child, he needed to be dealt with. But Jon did not feel comfortable with showing this man cruelty. He rubbed his temple. 

“Are you threatening me, My Prince?” Tyrion almost sounded bored.

“No… I would not threaten you unless you’d threatened my family or I. But I am trying to explain something to you. You’re wasting your time. I’ve tried to be careful and patient but… I have a family to protect. What happened in the garden was wholly inappropriate. As is the way you address her.” Jon swallowed. “You need to stop calling her Little Wife.”

“But that’s what she is. My little wife. She was not yet three-and-ten when we wed, can you blame me?” 

Jon was starting to lose patience. “Nearly twenty years have passed. She has won a war, mothered children, governed lands, and helped rule a kingdom since then. By no means is she little. Not in physical stature, not in influence, for she holds the North and sits on the council, and not in status, as she is arguably the third highest ranking personage in the kingdom.” 

The sun was still setting, the room getting darker. Tyrion’s face grew more obscured, but Jon could feel the man’s eyes still on him. Jon could almost feel the _portrait’s_ eyes on him as well. Jon gathered up his courage a bit more.

“The morning of your wedding, she was in the dress before she knew. And she tried to run, and was grabbed, and two kingsguard came in to take her, and she was threatened. Her family did not give consent, and she tried to escape. The one halfway decent person involved in the whole affair refused to consummate. Your wedding was not valid. She is not your wife, she is mine. She bears my name, title, and children.” Jon hesitated, but then decided to say the last bit:

“Children who, as trueborn progeny of House Targaryen, are heirs to the Iron Throne. To suggest that she is your wife, not mine, is tantamount to calling the heirs to the throne and the North bastards, a statement that could be construed as treasonous.”

He hated saying that. He hated actually threatening this man, who apparently had known nothing but threats his whole life. _I don’t want to be your enemy._

Jon pulled _Records of the Arryns_ open then, flipping to the last page. He pointed to the second to last name on the list of Lord of the Eyrie. _Eddard Hardyng Stark Arryn, son of Lord Harrold Hardyng Arryn and Lady Sansa Stark._

“That was her son. Her first child with her first husband. Her first true husband. The same time every year, she lights a candle to the Mother and remembers him. Eddie was murdered before her eyes, and she fought to preserve his memory from those who killed him. She fought for that in a court of law, and won. She braved sky cells and winter winds and the dragons themselves to do it. If she was willing to do such things to protect the memory of her dead child, what do you think either of us would do to protect the ones that still live?”

Jon shut the book again. “She is with child by me for the sixth time. We’ve lost two in the last few years. I brought her to Casterly Rock for the sake of her health. But your return and behavior have dampened the effect of those efforts. Let me make something clear, Lord Tyrion: I like you, I want to help you, and I wish to be the friend you need. But I am not a man who is interested in seeing his daughter go through her maidenhood without a mother to guide her. I am a father, a prince, a husband, and a lord, and all of those things are greater priorities to me than being your friend. I don’t want those things to come at the expense of our friendship, but if you insist on pushing that price, I will pay it. Do you understand?”

Tyrion Lannister stared at him impassively. Then, his face began to tremble. “Do you have _any_ bloody idea how lucky you are? It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Easy for all of you. So easy to stand tall when you’re born healthy and pretty and loved. You’ve got everything a man could possibly want: You’re a bloody prince, you’ve got a beautiful wife, three healthy sons, keeps and lands of your own, good health and favor. You even have a bloody dragon! While you were getting crowned, I was being branded. While you were riding dragons, I was riding pigs and mock jousting for crowds. While people were cheering your name, I heard people scream ‘Imp!’ Your supposed father loved you and raised you alongside his trueborn children despite you being a bastard. I was trueborn and disinherited and loathed by my father at birth. I went through my life as a monster, a slave, or an embarrassment in the eyes of all who knew me. Tell me, when was the last time someone looked at you with genuine disgust, Jon Targaryen? Because that is the only look I’m accustomed to receiving.”

Jon stopped short. Judging by the hurt look on the man's face, these were not words to doubt. “I do know how lucky I am, Tyrion. Because I was raised a bastard. Because I prepared myself for a life on the Wall at fourteen, with no wife or lands or wealth or children. Just service and cold. I was stabbed multiple times and left bleeding in the snow by my own men, did you know that? Do you know why? Because a psychotic madman was marching on the Wall, intending to cut my heart out because he thought I’d stolen his bride, who I believed to be my little sister. I tried for weeks, moons to keep the Watch alive, and my efforts resulted in death. The only reason I’m here is because of the magic of a Red Witch. I went to war. I fought and bled and watched friends die. So yes, Lannister, I do know. We all know. All of us. Which is why we do not take what we have for granted. What has befallen you… It is not your fault. None of it. I’ve seen how cruel and kind the world can be and over the last dozen or so years, I’ve known far more kindness than I probably deserve. But I’ve also known cruelty. I’ve known _death._ What has happened to you… I don’t blame you for it. No one does. Do you know that? _No one blames you for what has happened to you._ No one left alive, anyways. The people that hurt you are gone, Tyrion. We’re glad they’re gone. We’re not those people. We want to help you. But we can’t if you don’t want us to. Please, just let us.”

Tyrion lowered his oversized head onto the cool surface of the leather bound book. “I’m so tired, Jon. And I’m so afraid of it all. No one ever helped me but for gold. Even my brother… Jaime used to buy me toys. He taught me to ride. He defended me against Cersei. He saved me from execution. And then… All those years, Jon. All those years he let me believe she was a whore. He let me watch as she was raped, let me participate, let me believe she was a whore. He helped Father lie when he knew the truth. If I had known, even the next day, or even a year after, or even five years after… I could have maybe found her. I could have found her before she went wherever whores go. I could have known that _someone_ loved me just for being me. Could meet me and see me and care for me. But he lied. All those years as I took one whore after another, as I reminded myself that no woman could look at me with a smile unless I flashed a coin. _Even Jaime_ couldn’t let me be loved. Just…”

He looked up at Jon again. “Imagine if Robb knew. All those years. All those years as everyone called you bastard. And all the time he knew who you really were and kept it from you. Not just Robb, but Sansa, and your other sister…”

“…Arya?” It was an odd idea. He tried to imagine how he’d feel. Betrayed? _But maybe it would have been better for me._ He never hated Ned Stark for keeping that a secret. _He did it to keep me safe. Could I begrudge the others the same thing?_ Jon shook his head. “My parentage… I was kept in the dark to keep me safe. If anyone knew, I could have been killed. Everyone in my family, even. What Jaime kept from you, though… That wasn’t to keep you safe.”

Sam kept a secret from him, though. Sam, who was like a brother to him. Sam saw Bran andknew he was alive as he made his way to the lands beyond. Bran swore him to secrecy, and Sam kept that vow. Jon only knew years later. There was an old ache there, now and then, as he sometimes wondered if perhaps he might have seen Bran one last time, or maybe even have found a way to get to Rickon on Skaagos if Sam had been honest. Probably. The only way Jon was able to forgive his friend was the knowledge that Sam had forgiven him for risking Little Sam’s life with the ploy regarding Gilly and Mance’s son. Jon had prayed on it a few times, whenever that old resentment reared its head. Once, he’d heard Bran’s voice as he prayed, urging him to forgive. But every so often, the thought entered his head.

But Tyrion… He had done nothing to Jaime. And he had no greenseeing brother to counsel him. Rickon had not been the only person who ever loved Jon. And so Jon Targaryen knew that he couldn’t pretend to know exactly how deep this hurt went.

He decided to compare it to when his brothers gutted him. A deep ache settled in his stomach.

“No, it wasn’t. Or maybe… Maybe he thought it would. He probably believed I’d draw further ire from our father if I knew. He’d have probably been right.” Tyrion gave Jon a pleading look. “Please tell me that’s it. That’s what he must have thought. What he must have known.”

“I… I don’t know your brother’s thoughts. I never knew him, not really.” _He threw Bran from a window. He crippled my little brother._ “But… I’m sure that had to be it. He did save you when your father sentenced you to die. He must have cared. You were his little brother.”

“I was Cersei’s as well.”

“Cersei sentenced you to die. Jaime saved you from it.” _I didn’t save Rickon. I didn’t save Bran. I didn’t save Robb. I didn’t save Eddie. I didn’t save Arya._ Bran and Arya saved themselves, as did Sansa. But still… He banished this from his mind and focused on his friend. “He loved Cersei, but he defied her all the same. He risked a great deal to get you out of prison. Why would he do that, if he didn’t love you? And you know Tysha loved you. Your cousin cares for you. I do. My daughter thinks you’re a genius. She’s been driving her mother mad, wanting to talk to you. You’re not without love or admiration. You were considered worth saving, Tyrion. You still are.”

“Am I worth anything else? I’m an ugly face, a bitter heart, and a bellyful of wine. I used to think I was a clever mind, but who knows anymore? If I am, I’m not clever enough to be invaluable. Everyone seems to have done quite well without me.” Tyrion eyed the cup Jon had taken from him. The prince kept his hand steady over it.

 _He needs someone to keep an eye on him. Someone who would care. He needs a place. A place that preferably isn’t the site of his first love’s rape._ “Tyrion… Did you ever consider going to the Citadel?”

They could use him. And really, Jon couldn’t think of a much better place. It had worked wonders for Sam, who was poised to become an archmaester some day. _What better place than the fountain of all knowledge and learning in Westeros?_

Tyrion raised his head. “What, want to put me away already, Targaryen?”

Jon panicked. “No, I---“

Tyrion waved a hand dismissively, but there was an air of irritation to it. “I thought I could be of use at court. I traveled across the world to provide counsel to Daenerys Targaryen. Better late than never, I imagine.”

Jon inhaled sharply. “I’m not sure, My Lord. The Small Council isn’t really that small anymore, and it is full.”

“I thought I might represent the Westerlands. I spoke with Martyn about it. I promise, I’d behave myself. I’m sure it would please that girl of yours.”

 _Why did he have to mention Naerys?_ He didn’t see any note of malice or mischief in Tyrion’s eyes as he said this, but Jon wasn’t keen on having Tyrion too close with his daughter, if only for his wife’s sake.

There was a knock on the door then. Curious, Jon called whomever it was to enter. Martyn and Sansa strode in.

Tyion stiffened up, and Jon felt a bit nervous as well. Had his wife lost patience? It didn’t seem entirely unlikely. It was hard to make out their expressions easily in the dim light until they came closer. His wife’s mouth was a hard line, and Martyn looked nervous. A number of servants followed in after them and began lighting some of the sconces and lamps in the library. The light caught Sansa’s hair, giving the impression of her appearing ablaze. A fair impression, giving the anger on her face. A length of parchment was clutched tightly in Sansa’s hand. It bore Daenerys’s seal.

She set the paper down. “Congratulations, Lord Tyrion,” she said, her voice clipped, “You have received a personal invitation to court by Her Grace Queen Daenerys on the recommendation of the Master of Whispers and the Lord Commander of the City Watch.”

Jon’s stomach lurched. _Pod._


	6. Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for her edits! :)

Chapter Six: Children

Sansa:

Two eyes, eyes of different colors, stared at her. Angry.  Lustful. She lay naked and cold upon a bed. The eyes came closer. Closer. Stunted limbs scrambled onto the bed. She tried to cover herself, but the hands tore the sheets to shreds. Sansa cried and tried to move away. But the hands grabbed her, clutching her curved belly and breast. “Why does everyone get you but me?” Sansa struggled and tried to push him away. A weight bore down on her, flipping her over. She was trapped and---

Her eyes popped open. Silvery moonlight poured in from the immense window overlooking Lannisport. Arms were around her. Trying to catch her breath, she clutched at the arms that held her and registered the length of them and the body they were attached to. Tall, long, hard with muscle. Smelling of sea air, pine, fresh earth, and just a hint of ash. A smell and a body she knew. She took a deep breath.

 _That sort of thing doesn’t happen to you anymore,_ she reminded herself. It had been what? Fourteen years since she was last in bed with a man she didn’t want? She still felt those hands on her sometimes--- but they were ghosts, memories. Creations of her own mind.

She did, however, pull herself out of bed and go to a nearby basin to wash herself down a bit. Just a light scrub, she told herself, as she washed her arms, legs, face,  neck. Sansa pulled on her dressing gown, took a candelabra and left their apartments, heading for the nursery area.

The rooms her children were staying in were beautifully decorated, sizeable, and comfortable, with murals of lions and ships on the walls. In truth, they were even a bit finer than the children’s rooms in the Red Keep, but Sansa wasn’t dismayed by that. She didn’t want her children ever growing accustomed to too much luxury. It wasn’t healthy. Naerys’s chambers here were particularly large and ostentatious, with a dressing table that had a frame of crystal that made it look enchanted and a high ceiling decorated with silvery stars. 

Sansa crept in, careful to keep her movements as quiet as possible. Her daughter lay in the large, four-poster bed, an open book on her chest. Sansa smiled and slipped the volume from her daughter and placed it by her bedside. A book on great romances--- the sort of thing that  her daughter would have disdained as silly only a year ago.

Comforted by the girl’s peace, Sansa slipped from her room to the one the twins shared. They were in identical canopied beds side by side. Aemon’s mouth hung open. Despite his white Targaryen hair, at that moment he looked so much like his father it took Sansa’s breath away. Brandon, meanwhile, twitched in his sleep. He’d done that since he was born. They used to think he was beset by nightmares, but Brandon claimed his dreams were full of adventure and fun.

Finally, she checked Robb’s, and found her heir sitting up in bed, lit candles at his bedside, a book in his lap. He looked up when she entered and quickly tried to hide the tome. 

Sansa sighed. This wasn’t completely unexpected. Both of her eldest children had an excessive love for reading. Robb had the decency to look guilty.

“I was just about to turn in, Mother,” he said, red eyes urgent. “I promise.”

“Robb, it is very, very late.” Sansa took the book from him. “Sleep. Now. We have a big day tomorrow.”

They were setting off for court. Finally.

Her son groaned. “Why do we have to leave? Casterly Rock is amazing!”

“It is,” she agreed, “But it is not our home. We have stayed long enough. And your aunt wants to see you again. And we have duties in King’s Landing. So do you. You only have a few moons left with us, remember?”

After his twelfth Name Day, Robb was to go North for two full years to squire for his Aunt Arya. Robb had spent at least a quarter of every year in the North since he was born, but now it was time for his work there to take a more earnest turn. He’d done minor squiring for men in his parents’ service, but now he needed  tutelage as future Lord of Winterfell. 

This wasn’t something Sansa enjoyed reminding herself of--- having her little boy leave her made her heart ache. But before she knew it, he would be a man. And he had responsibilities to the North, just as Sansa did. But until now, she had spent only a small part of the year with him at Winterfell. This would be two years apart. It wasn’t the same. _But he can’t be tied to his mother’s skirts forever,_ she told herself. 

Despite her unhappiness, this was something Robb was greatly looking forward to. He loved the North, he loved his aunt, and he was eager to prove himself “nearly a man grown”, as he and every other boy over the age of two liked to say. A few years ago, it was cute. But as that became ever more true, it became ever more difficult to swallow as well. 

She mentioned the upcoming trip north now to make him go to sleep more easily and avoid an argument. As predicted, Robb smiled. “Oh yes, I remember. Of course, I understand. I’ll get to sleep.”

Sansa leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Goodnight, Darling.”

He cringed to hear her call him that, despite the fact that there was no one around to hear. She’d started taking care with how she addressed her older children in public--- boys of eight and up did not like being addressed as ‘Sweetling’ in front of others--- but in private, she indulged herself. 

“Goodnight, Mother,” he said, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She kissed him one more time before he turned over, pulling the covers to his jaw.

Sansa left the room, feeling peaceful again. All the same, she was eager to get them back to the capital, where Ghost and Daenerys were waiting. Even the dragons… despite her fear regarding Naerys riding Viserion, those creatures scared away anyone who might seek to hurt them. A reminder of what harming a Targaryen could mean was good to have around.

To her dismay, when she returned, Jon was sitting up in bed as well. And Sansa was struck by how much of his profile resembled their eldest son. Aemon was the one who had his features and Naerys his hair, but there were glimpses of Jon in all her children. Robb had her look--- high cheekbones, blue eyes, red hair--- but this was one of those instances where she saw more of a resemblance between Jon and their eldest boy.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said quietly. Her husband looked at her with nervous eyes.

“It’s not me being awake I worry about,” he said gently, pulling the covers back for her to get in beside him. “The children are fine?”

It was really more of a prompt than a question. Sansa nodded as she slipped in and moved against him. “The children are fine.” 

He nodded. “As they were last night. And the night before... And the night before… “

“I’ve always checked on them.”

“A couple nights a week. Not every single night.”

“May we not, please?” she asked, resting her head against his chest and trying to keep the tartness from her voice. “I’ll feel better once we get home.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, it’s just the lion’s den.” She gestured to one of the various lion moldings. She found the Lannister’s obsession with their sigil a bit over the top. A notable  thing, considering she was a member of two Houses that actually kept the animals that were their sigils as companions.  

Jon’s eyes burned into her in a way that did credit to his Valyrian blood. “Oh, yes, that must be it. I mean, it’s not like you started doing this every night after we’d already been here a week. And I’m sure the fact that we’re now bringing a lion back with us will have no effect on you.”

 _He’s only a little lion,_ she wanted to reply. Sansa refused to acknowledge the possibility of Tyrion Lannister frightening her. _He’s only a little lion, and I am not a little girl._ She curled up against Jon further. “I thought you wanted me to sleep. How can I sleep if you keep talking?” 

He stroked her cheek, his eyes crinkling up and his lip curling slightly at this rebuke. “Fair enough, Your Grace. Goodnight.”

 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Tyrion:

His saddle was rushed in its construction. In his youth, he had realized that he couldn’t ride on regular saddles, so he had been forced to design something he could use.  He’d hoped that an old version of that construction would still be lying around Casterly Rock somewhere, and there was. The _very_ old, original version of his first saddle.  Apparently, all other versions were destroyed in his sister’s obsession with erasing him and all remnants of his existence from the world. The survivor hadn’t reached the perfect design state yet and had fallen into disrepair besides.  He knew every flaw intimately. 

Tyrion took the old version and from it drew up some new plans, ones with the improvements he’d made over the years, then paid the best blacksmiths and leatherworkers in Lannisport to do a rush job. The work of recreating his invention actually did him some good,.  So did his general preparations for his court appearance.

After years of being the drunken dwarf slave, he had to admit there was something deeply satisfying about the process of being groomed t--- getting fitted for clothes, getting a proper haircut and shave, eating regularly--- it helped. It made him feel alive again. He stayed fastidious about the plans. Less than a fortnight passed between his invitation and the departure date. Getting ready for court--- organizing a staff, negotiating his budget, arranging travel and accommodations, --- it all kept him too busy for the memories.

He’d acquired a head of household called Tristopher who had served in the household of a minor Westerlands nobleman for fifteen years. He helped Tyrion oversee his affairs and direct staff. In addition to Tristopher was a new manservant/squire, a sandy-haired boy of nine called Tom, the son of a  Lannisport cousin. His father was said to be ambitious -- pushing his children into service to “important” people while he had worked in trade. Two of Tom’s brothers were in service at Casterly Rock, and all three spoke with carefully practiced tones, making sure not to drop their H’s and quickly correcting themselves if they accidentally said “ast” instead of “ask” or “M’Lord” instead of “My Lord.” 

The boy could read and write.  He had been taught by his sister, who was one of Lady Nallette’s maids.  He also had a good memory and was quick on his feet.  While the boy had limited court experience, that could be a good thing. _He won’t belong to another party._ Tyrion didn’t need spies.   

By the time they set out, he had at least what he needed to get to court. Once he got to King’s Landing, he could acquire whatever else he might need. Martyn gave him a fair allowance, with the agreement that he’d get a decent spending report once every month. Tyrion knew he’d have to be sharp with any possible hidden costs -- no doubt his cousin would be looking.

The journey there was surprisingly uneventful, though Jon Targaryen proved a surprise – a disappointing one. The man had not taken the Robert Baratheon route of going from fit to fat as he got older. He was five-and-thirty and still lean, and younger looking than Tyrion remembered Ned Stark being at that age. Tyrion assumed the man rode everywhere. Yet during a large portion of the journey, the prince stayed in the wheelhouse with his wife, taking to horseback only slightly more often than his daughter.

One afternoon, when the Prince of the Andals emerged from the wheelhouse and jumped astride his black courser, Tyrion rode up alongside him on the path.

“Ah, so you do still live, then.”

Jon glanced at him and smiled. “Yes. Thank you for your concern.”

“Oh, my concern for others is unparalleled. Tell me, is it the pollen that keeps you indoors? Perhaps it irritates your eyes?”

Jon shook his head and laughed. “No, not at all. I am not the one who ails. My wife struggles with travel when she carries a babe these days. Her stomach troubles her.” 

“That is unfortunate, but I fail to see why it keeps you indoors. Are you her husband or her nursemaid?”

“A good husband is not afraid to be both.”

 _Gods above, what happened to you? You’re a prince, for pity’s sake._ Princess Sansa had a half dozen ladies and even more maids and attendants. She had a healer from the East, even.

“And she needs this service of you?” Tyrion couldn’t help but laugh a little.  He looked at the sword Jon wore. “What use is that Valyrian steel of yours to a woman with a babe in her belly?”

A queer look came over Jon’s face then, as if Tyrion had said something especially awkward and Jon wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. “I carry my sword because wielding it has never failed to serve me or those I love whenever I’ve had need of it. I never know when there will be trouble, but I keep my blade sharp and ready just in case. But I like to think I’m more than just a blade. The best thing a person can be is useful. I’d be a poor man if I couldn’t be that with or without my blade. I consider whatever service I’m called upon to provide a privilege.”

“An honor to serve, then?” Tyrion smirked. His prince noticed and his jaw stiffened, though a bit of color rose to his cheeks.

“Always. I take pride in honoring oaths, whether they are to the Watch, to the realm, or to my wife. Maybe some duties are not always as easy or pleasant as others, but I promised to care for her. I do.”

He said this matter-of-factly, as if it weren’t embarrassing. Apparently, it wasn’t to him. Tyrion stared for a second. _She’s completely dominated him._ He felt sorry for the poor sod. Then he wondered if Lord Tywin ever attended Lady Joanna when she carried him and his siblings.  It seemed unlike his father to dote or nurture anyone. But his Aunt Genna always said he was a different man when Tyrion’s mother lived. _Did he stroke her belly and hold her hair when she carried Jaime and Cersei? And … me?_ Tyrion tried to picture his father with his wife, so enamored and excited for the arrival of his children. _Maybe he even smiled. And then…_ Tyrion clenched his fist and shuddered.

Re-entering the city proved difficult. The stares of the people unnerved him. No shouts of “Monster!” and “Freak!” met his ears, but people turned away and wrinkled their noses. He could see his own ugliness reflected back at him everywhere he looked. He kept a skin of wine and brought it to his lips every five seconds, not being able to take it without spirits to dull his senses.

At one point, Princess Naerys trotted over to her father. Then, with guards in tow, she and her younger brothers broke away from the procession in the direction of the Dragonpit.

By the time they got to the Keep, Tyrion wanted to hide. _I’m no craven,_ he reminded himself. He straightened his back and looked back. He didn’t smile. He hadn’t smiled, truly smiled, in a long time. But he knew that even when he did, it looked terrifying. Tyrion knew not to smile.

 _Should have found a litter before I entered this forsaken city._ One couldn’t be prepared in time--- the new Lannisters were enthusiastic equestrians and there were not many that could be spared that were in good repair. Tyrion checked that off his list for things he needed made once he was settled. 

Luckily, there was something to distract him. Something major. Something in the form of giant, winged beasts flying up from the pit on Visenya’s Hill.

_Gods above, they’ve grown even more._

There were three – even a slave knew that. The green and white ones shotout of the pit, their screeches piercing the sky as much as their bodies. Comets in reverse. Tyrion stopped short, forgetting the faces of the city folk and staring up, waiting for the wonder.

He’d seen them before, in Slaver’s Bay. But that day was so tinged with violence and disappointment he could barely think. Now though…

Tyrion thought he’d feel more overcome, now that he was seeing them in his own home, rather than in Yunkai being held back by a mad mob. He wanted to feel better. He wanted the excitement.

But it was like what happened with the whores. Or with a single cup of wine. The effect that didn’t come. _But with them, I over-indulged. I’ve seen dragons once before. Just once. I dreamt of them for years. What is wrong with me?_

He wanted to watch them fly. He just wanted to see it happen. And now he was. And… Nothing.

Tyrion Lannister swallowed and looked away… And saw the faces of the city folk again. They were smiling and watching, but there was a surprising lack of enthusiasm for people witnessing a miracle. Especially as the largest of the beasts--- black and red--- shot out and flew above his siblings.

 _FEEL SOMETHING. YOU CAN SHUDDER AWAY FROM A DWARF BUT YOU CAN’T CHEER AND CRY FOR DRAGONS?!_ He didn’t know if he was upset with them or himself.

Unable to take anymore, Tyrion started moving once more. The Red Keep grew closer and closer until it seemed to loom over him, ready to engulf him.

A similar sensation struck him when he’d approached the Lion’s Mouth that night, the night he had come back to Casterly Rock, the night he had returned to being Tyrion Lannister. Now he watched the stream of people enter the walls, every gate of the Red Keep opening like a new mouth and people happily riding in. _So eager to be eaten. Am I any different?_

Every gate was a mouth, and he suspected each mouth was a different beast. Once, the beasts were lions. Now… _Dragons, wolves… what else?_ The Tyrells in coin and as Hand, House Allyrion handling laws, and Seaworths handling ships (that last one was particularly amazing to him, considering the Onion Knight’s famous devotion to Stannis) were powerful here now. But their sigils had no mouths.

The crowds in the throne room as he was presented were even worse than the ones in the streets. It seemed all the nobility was eager to get a glimpse of “The Imp” meeting the dragon queen. Tyrion held his head high, approaching the Iron Throne upon its dais. Upon it sat the famous dragon queen, Targaryen hair gleaming, swathed in blue silks, a pocket of loveliness against the ugliness of her throne.

She wasn’t the youth he’d seen in Yunkai anymore, but he recognized her all too well. The years had done little to diminish Daenerys Stormborn’s famed beauty.

“Lord Tyrion of House Lannister,” the queen called out, her voice far larger than her body, “I bid you welcome to court.”

“I am honored, Your Grace,” he replied. It took him too long to kneel, his leg in agony. Getting up was worse. Tom hurried over to help him. 

The queen’s eyes flashed. “Ser Myles, why don’t you show Lord Tyrion to his chambers?” 

 _Well, that was abrupt. Why ask me here if that is the end?_ Feeling utterly ridiculous, Tyrion bid farewell and followed the City Watch knight.

He was given chambers due a noble--- decent bedchamber with an area that worked as a solar. Tristopher was already there, directing the unpacking. Tyrion groaned and heaved himself onto a cushioned bench, putting his legs up as people bustled around him. 

There was a knock on the door and in came a helmeted man in a gold cloak and decorated armor that denoted the rank of the Commander of the City Watch. Tyrion reluctantly stood up.

“No, don’t trouble yourself!”

Tyrion peered up at the gilded helmet. Do we know each other, Ser?”

The helmet was removed, revealing a head of dark hair and bright eyes. “My Lord!”

Tyrion’s jaw dropped. “ _Pod?!”_

A shy smile came to the young man’s face. One that was unmistakable. _Gods above, he’s a giant._ The boyishness of his face remained, though.A look of relief then crossed Pod’s face. “I’ve missed you, My Lord! I thought you were dead!”

“So did I.”

With that, Pod, apparently now Commander Podrick Payne, looked at his feet.

Tyrion sighed. He couldn’t do this. Not with Pod. “Shall we celebrate being wrong?”

“I’ve been celebrating since we got word. I told Her Grace, ‘you must meet him, he’s brilliant.’”

“And the queen takes your council in these matters seriously, does she?” This was good to know. 

Podrick smiled. “Yes, she does. We’re going to find a night to dine together.” 

 _Very interesting._ “Just how close are you with Her Grace?”

The smile fell again. “I am the Commander of the City Watch. I protect the capital. We speak.”

“I see.” Not a lie. Tyrion said no more about it, though. He could not goad him further. _Not Pod. I cannot do it to Pod._ A big part of him still saw that nervous little boy who could only look at his toes. A boy who was willing to learn from his lord, no matter how ugly or stunted that lord might be. “Well, I thank you for your help, Pod.”

“Would you dine with me tonight, though? Just me… And I’ll provide the food, in my quarters. If you’re not too weary. I thought maybe I could give you some information. Update you on things in the Red Keep.”

Tyrion looked appraisingly at the young man. _A friend. A friend in the Keep. No bribes. Just an offer._ “I would love to. But one thing I simply cannot wait until supper to learn, Pod.” 

“Yes, My Lord?”

 _You technically have more claim to that title than I do. Yet you’re letting me call you by your given name. Not even that. A fragment of it._ “How in the Seven Hells have you made it to Lord Commander of the City Watch without being eaten alive?”

 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Naerys:

“There’s the flare,” Robb called out with a groan as a bright green plume of flame and smoke shot out from the top of the dragon pit. The standard signal given when they were summoned back to the ground. Naerys nodded, took one last longing look at the two winch towers at the mouth of the Blackwater, then guided Viserion back to the pit.

Robb’s hands tightened on her waist as they landed. Naerys glanced wistfully up at the sky once more as they lowered into the pit. _I wish I could keep flying, Big Brother, but I must go meet your mother._

Brandon and Aemon stood with her personal guard No’Ather and Loreza Sand upon the high dais. No’Ather, lean and sharp-eyed, had a hand upon Brandon’s shoulder as the boy pressed himself against the rail eagerly. Aemon’s eyes were bright, but he maintained a cautious distance.

When they were settled and the dragon handlers rushed forward to unstrap them, Naerys leaned forward and gave Viserion’s neck one last hug before waving the people away and unstrapping herself. Robb attended to his own bonds as well and the two of them hopped off onto the dais.

“When will it be _our_ turn?” Brandon asked, pretending not to know the answer. Naerys rolled her eyes. _Be patient. Patience is a virtue._

“You know you’re not allowed to fly with anyone but the queen or Father.” Naerys wasn’t allowed to fly alone, she was the eldest and actually had her own dragon. She and Robb were only recently deemed old enough to take rides together, and still only as far as the city limits. Though Viserion was supposed to be _her_ dragon, she felt she was always sharing him with Robb anyways. That would likely be the case until the eggs finally hatched, if they ever did. _And then I’d likely have to wait a whole other year for his to grow big enough to ride._

Naerys patted the beast’s neck, pulled a couple of birds from a nearby feeding basket, and tossed them to him. Her mount shrieked, crisped them with a jet of flame, and swallowed them whole. Drogon and Rhaegal rose up from their perches within the pit at that. Aemon and Robb, excited, tossed them birds of their own as Naerys stared at her frustrated little brother.

“They won’t even let me try the whip or the reins,” Brandon complained.

 _You’re only eight,_ Naery hadn’t gotten to touch either until she was ten. _And I don’t let Robb take the reins either._ It was the one thing about Viserion’s care that she was allowed to determine. Aunt Dany and Father took control sometimes, but Naerys refused to let her brother take the lead on Viserion. He was supposed to be _her_ dragon.

“Even if your sister could give you a ride,” Lady Loreza said, stepping forward. “It is time for you all to return to the Keep. Her Grace will want to greet you all.”

Much of the time, when their family returned from a journey, Aunt Dany greeted them at the city gates, sometimes riding Drogon with one or both of the other dragons in tow.

But today, she had to stay in the Keep to greet Lord Tyrion. Naerys didn’t even think Papa would let them go visit the dragons first--- Mama never would, she didn’t even like Naerys and Robb riding Viserion. But Papa let them. Naerys worried it might have something to do with keeping her from going to talk to Lord Tyrion. She’d only done it once, but ever since Mama gave her that talk, she hadn’t. Even if she intended to, she couldn’t. Mama had her and the boys watched carefully since she found out. 

It was disappointing, as Naerys would have liked to talk to the man. She wanted to know about his thoughts on Essos, and where he’d been. She wanted to know about seeing Aunt Dany and the dragons in Meereen. Lady Missandei, Ser Barristan, No’Ather, and Dead Dirt and so many others: they had told her stories. But they all followed Aunt Dany. Naerys wanted to hear the words of someone who didn’t. She’d read enough books to know the same story could be told a hundred different ways. 

She wanted to know about the Battle of the Blackwater as well. And hear firsthand knowledge about Tywin Lannister. Who would know more about Tywin’s evil than the man who put a stop to it?

But Naerys wouldn’t scare her mother like that again. She wanted her new brother or (hopefully) sister to be born happy and well. Papa always reminded them that Mama had to be relaxed to insure that.

The young princess just didn’t know what she’d do if she lost another sibling. She’d lost three. One, Eddie, had died before she was even born. Evil men killed him because he was heir to the Eyrie and Winterfell. The second was just starting to grow in Mama’s belly when he or she was lost. Naerys wasn’t supposed to know about it, but she did. She had a feeling Robb knew too, though no one spoke of it out loud. Just, for several weeks Mama and Papa seemed happy and excited. Then one day, Papa came to the nursery, white-faced and red-eyed and said Mama was going to stay in her room for a couple of days, sick. 

Panicking, she asked if Mama was going to die. Papa shook his head and said no, just that she was going to be in bed.

Naerys was only six at the time, but even then she knew that Papa wouldn’t cry over a two-day minor illness. She couldn’t figure it out then.

A few years later, when Naerys was nine, Mama’s belly began to grow and she excitedly told them that another brother or sister was coming. Less than a moon’s turn later, Mama was back in bed, this time not just crying but howling.

A teeny, tiny bundle, half the size of a loaf of bread, was all she saw of her little sister. It was lifted from a casket and burned. They named her Arya, after Naerys’s aunt who ruled the North with her mother. Naerys was devastated. She’d wanted a sister so badly.

She heard people whispering about how late the miscarriage was.

It was in the gardens, walking with Robb, that Naerys overheard Lady Swann talking behind a hedge.

“If it were just within the first few weeks, it would have been a quick thing, at the very, very least. A bit of blood and a couple days in bed and tears. The pain is great enough with the early losses, but at least your body gets less punishment. But this… This is cruel…”

When Naerys heard that, that strange thing that happened years ago clicked. And she knew. That night, Robb snuck into her bed. 

“Do you remember years ago… When Papa came to our playroom and said Mama had to stay in bed and he was crying?” 

“Yes,” Naerys whispered, pulling the covers over their heads. Mama always told them that nothing could hurt them if they hid beneath the blankets.

“I’d never seen him cry before that,” Robb had said, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t see him cry again until now.”

They exchanged looks and said no more.

Naerys did see her father cry before that. Robb didn’t remember, but he was only three when it happened. When the twins were born, and Mama almost died. Naerys remembered thinking dark thoughts to her two new brothers. _If you kill my mother, I’ll hate you._

Robb, then three years old, cried a lot while their mother labored.  After the birth, Papa came to Naerys’s room where the two of them sat. He picked them both up and let them weep until Robb fell asleep. Jon tucked him into Naerys’s bed, then came over to her little sofa and let him sob in his arms a bit more. When she looked up at one point, she saw his own tears. 

Papa wept horribly when Baby Arya was lost. The twins’ birth, Baby Arya, and that other time were the only times she saw it happen.

 It wasn’t hard to make the connection. 

Naerys didn’t want to see Papa cry again. Or Mama stuck in bed, miserable.

Knowing that Naerys had gone to speak to Lord Tyrion scared her Lady Mother so much. Naerys was shocked by the emotional reaction she saw. She hadn’t seen her mother that scared since Brandon and Aemon got their first dragon flight with Aunt Dany.

So she stayed away. Indeed, she was on her guard more in general. What her mother said… Naerys had been warned that men could be untrustworthy before. She grew up in King’s Landing. But something about that talk struck her.

And it wasn’t just the idea that Papa got worked up with Mama even when he didn’t want a baby. 

Her voice. Her eyes. Very little fazed Naerys’s mother. She was the _Red Wolf._ Even though she wasn’t as fierce and aggressive as Aunt Dany, Aunt Arya, Maid Brienne, or some of Loreza’s sisters, she was very brave and composed. Sometimes Father said that while Mama didn’t often wield steel, she was made of it. Naerys had seen her mother stare down a group of rowdy Northern bandits without blinking and smile graciously as a Dothraki hoard presented her, Papa, and Aunt Dany with the severed head of an enemy.

This, though… Mama wasn’t afraid of steel or axes. But the idea of men getting too close to young girls bothered her.

Naerys mounted Sunna, her palfrey, and rode back to the Red Keep. She wanted to see her Aunt Dany again so badly. _Aunt Dany tells me more._


	7. Just Little Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya Stark arrives at court, Daenerys hides history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for beta-ing!
> 
> Guys, this one is a bit difficult. Not just because it took so long, but because it has several elements that are going to be... troubling. Warning: fan favorite characters shall makes mistakes. Also, Arya's family situation is a bit... weird. If her kid seems to be too good to be true, just be aware that perspective is a strong influence here, and Arya's a VERY doting mother.

Chapter Seven: Just Little Girls

Arya:

She stared up at the gates of King’s Landing with resentment, then looked down at her dire wolf from horseback with more. Nymeria, as ever, just looked forward determinedly. She had started straying from Winterfell’s grounds, going southward more and more. And she kept escaping from the kennels, no matter what she did. Finally, the Warden of the North looked at both her husband and her paramour and told them she and Ravella were taking a trip. Both men, of course, were concerned.

Jannell Umber, her husband, blustered about regarding it as only an Umber could. “You can’t just take her away from her fathers!”

Fathers, meaning Gendry, himself, and his lifelong lover Henrick, all of whom doted on and acted as fathers to the little girl that was officially Jannell’s and factually Gendry’s. Ravella looked enough like Jannell with her grey eyes and dark hair, and everyone simply went along with it. Even her false fathers. But then, the seven-year-old was adorable enough for any man to want to be her father. Her ‘false fathers’ adored her.

Arya brought Jannell and Henrick to reassure her lover. She couldn’t bring Gendry--- it was an unofficial agreement with the queen that she would turn a blind eye to Ravella’s true Baratheon-bastard parentage as long as Gendry never journeyed south of the Neck with his daughter. Arya suspected their monarch would be less tolerant if not for the fact that Ravella looked so Northern.

Her daughter rode alongside her now, her eyes shining at the sight of the city in a way that reminded Arya uncomfortably of her older sister at a much younger age. Ravella saw her royal relatives fairly frequently, but usually just at Winterfell and Riverrun. She had only been to the capital once before, but she’d been a babe still in swaddling then, when the dragon queen insisted upon inspecting the new Stark herself. Arya had steered clear since.

Arya reached out and put her hand on Ravella’s arm. Her daughter looked up at her from her perch atop her pony, wide-eyed.

“We’ve come to a dangerous place,” the Warden of the North reminded her daughter. _My sweet summer child._ Ravella had seen a winter, and recently, but a brief three year one which she seemed to be forgetting as the spring danced through the lands of Westeros. Arya, despite all the hardship, almost wished for a false spring to harden her child. She sometimes wondered if her parents ever felt the same way. _A bit more cold to harden her up._

Ravella nodded slowly in that practiced way that told her mother she was partly pretending to listen. “Yes, Mother.”

 _Why did I bring her? Oh, right, because of my strange fear._ Arya didn’t like her daughter being away from Nymeria for too long. Also, it was time for Daenerys to see her again—to see how Starklike she still was, and to make sure no one said Arya Stark was afraid to show her daughter’s face at court.

It was good for Ravella, too. Her daughter was strong and capable when you put her in leathers and set her to hunting in the woods or sparring in the yard, but without a blade or bow, she was well-behaved and gentle, comfortable in gowns in a way her own mother never quite managed. It could be a bit embarrassing.

 _In some ways, more prepared for court than I was._ Arya took comfort in that. Of course, she also took certain precautions. Ravella had endured a number of lectures from her mother prior to their arrival, and along the road. Her daughter throughout them resisted listening a bit, growing weary of their talks, but Arya wanted to make sure. Her daughter had spirit, as Arya once did, and the Red Keep held a lot of bad memories.

Ravella looked back at the Red Keep at once, bouncing a little in her saddle. Ravella was a constant ball of energy and enthusiasm. Her mother loved her for that in addition to a thousand other things. But now, she had her misgivings.

“Will I be one of Aunt Sansa’s ladies?” Her daughter asked as the gates opened and the Red Keep grew closer.

Arya shook her head. “You’ll be companion to your cousin Naerys.”

Ravella smiled. “Perfect. Aunt Sansa doesn’t go out to the yards enough. And Naerys rides a dragon. Do you think---?”

“No,” Arya cut her off, glancing nervous at the dragon pit. A plume of pale smoke rose from it. A small one. “Even if you weren’t too young, you’re no Targaryen.”

Ravella pouted.

“Don’t cause trouble,” said Arya, wishing she’d heard more advice like that when she first entered the gates of this city. People gathered in the streets as they rode by, drawn by the Stark banners. Arya’s sigil was a bit different--- two thin swords crossed behind her wolf. But the Direwolf in general was highly popular in most parts of the country, and the capital’s enthusiasm for it was almost as great as it was in the North. Arya raised a hand to greet them, while Ravella’s eyes flashed and she grinned and waved. _Where in the Seven Hells did my child learn to flirt?!_

The Warden of the North urged her steed on faster. “Come on.” 

“I wish I were a princess like Naerys,” Ravella remarked. “Then you’d be encouraging me to wave.” 

“I encourage you to wave up North.” _And you’re more or less a princess there. But that won't do you any good here._ “Try not to outshine your cousins while you’re here.”

“I couldn’t!” Ravella said, but she blushed in a pleased fashion.

 _You could._ Maybe that wasn’t entirely true. But Arya liked to think it was. 

When they arrived within the castle gates, their royal relations were already assembled there. Brandon, ruddy-haired like his mother, fidgeted in a way that reminded Arya of herself at his age. His twin watched them calmly, his smile identical to his father’s, his hair a shock of white against the black and red. Robb, so close to his namesake in looks and oddly like his mother in manners, smiled winningly, a Direwolf brooch glinting on his Stark-grey doublet. Naerys seemed oddly preoccupied, judging by the thoughtful look on her face. Naerys and Robb always appeared thoughtful, but their focus was usually excellent. At the moment, that could be said for Robb, but not Naerys.

Sansa, in Targaryen black and red, watched Arya and Ravella intently. It touched Arya’s heart to see how comforted her sister seemed by her arrival. Arya glanced down at her sister’s belly: it swelled and she swallowed, relieved.

Then there was Jon. Meeting his eyes was what caused Arya to spring from her saddle. It took all of her self-control not to run into Jon’s arms the way her daughter did. Her brother knelt down, took off Ravella’s green riding cap, and mussed her hair affectionately. Then he looked up at her, and Arya could resist no longer. She embraced her brother as her daughter hugged her aunt.

“Oh look at you!” Sansa gushed as she took her niece’s hands and kissed them both. “You get more beautiful every time I see you!”

“No, she doesn’t!” Brandon cried out. Everyone glared at him. Ravella pounced on her cousin, wrestling him to the ground. Arya pounced after her, furious. _For pity’s sake!_ She almost admonished her girl to act like a lady, but her history forced her to hold her tongue. _Not in front of Sansa, she’d never let me hear the end of it._ She grabbed her daughter and pulled her off. “What did I tell you?! This isn’t Winterfell!”

Sansa grabbed her son as well, taking him sharply by the ear so it quickly turned as red as his hair. “Apologize at once!”

“You as well, Ravella!”

Both children panted and looked at each other reluctantly. “Sorry,” they mumbled in unison. The Stark sisters exchanged weary looks.

Ravella and Brandon had had a bitter rivalry for three years, which they usually expressed in the yards. While Arya considered her daughter to be better behaved than she’d been at that age, it changed quite a bit when Ravella encountered her cousin.

Robb stepped forward. “I’m sorry about my stupid brother.”

“Robb!” Jon snapped, annoyed. He sighed and Arya mentally thanked the gods that she only had one child.

It was then that her husband, tall, beefy, dark-haired and ruddy-faced, came over and bowed deeply. “Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Grace.” He winked at Naerys, who grinned. Every child loved their Uncle Jannell, but Naerys most of all. The man was the sort who did well with children: big shoulders for climbing on, a total ham, and not at all afraid to get messy. A more genial version of most of his relatives. 

Jon stepped forward and clapped the man on the back, “Has my sister been taking good care of you?” 

Everyone laughed. Unfortunately, the humor dissipated when Sansa quietly reminded everyone that the queen was waiting for them.

Daenerys Targaryen, as terrifying and beautiful as ever, came down from her throne to give Ravella a close inspection, cupping the girl’s chin and looking back and forth between her and her “father.” Everyone held their breath.

“She looks like her mother,” the queen said, and Arya released her grip on Needle’s hilt. She managed to smile. For once, Ravella was quiet. Sansa floated over and beamed.

“She does, doesn’t she? A Stark, through and through.”

“Is she ever!” Jannell thundered.

Ravella’s hand found its way to Arya’s, and the Warden of the North swallowed. “She’s a good girl, better than I ever was. Well-behaved. Most of the time.”

Dany’s eyes glinted. The two women stared at one another for several moments. The Dragon Queen smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

She bent down once more. “And you’ll be a good girl, won’t you?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Always.” Ravella stared up at Daenerys with big, round eyes, intimidated. Arya found herself oddly grateful for it.

Naerys, the treasure, hurried over and wrapped her arms around her cousin’s neck warmly. “I just can’t wait to have her here as one of my ladies! I’ll make sure she doesn’t cause trouble! We’re going to have so much fun! Having my Stark cousin here is so exciting! It’ll be great practice for my new sister!”

Arya looked at her niece curiously. She’d never revealed the nature of her relationship with Gendry---- or Ravella’s true parentage--- to any of her siblings’ children. _But then, that’s never been a girl that has missed much._

“My Love,” Sansa said to her husband, laying a couple of fingers on his sleeve, “Why don’t you and the children escort my sister and niece to their chambers? I have some matters to discuss with the queen and the Mistress of Coin.” 

Arya’s eyes darted around at once, looking for her aunt by marriage. Margaery Tyrell Tully stood off to the side with her brother, the Lord Hand, flanked by her good-daughter Minisa as well. Minisa Tully had grown into a bonny lass, eerily identical to a young Sansa. Uncle Edmure had informed Arya that Margaery would be at court, ‘counting coppers for the queen and making sure Minisa makes a proper debut.” Margaery’s own daughter, Lisel, age ten, would be there as well. She was one of Naerys’s companions and there were rumors that Margaery intended to make the girl the next Lady of Winterfell. But she was nowhere in sight. 

Jon nodded and mockingly offered his arm to his sister. Arya grinned and yanked him and her daughter away. Jannell excused himself, wishing to go oversee the transport of their things. Once they were in a less public forum, making for the royal wing, the children broke into a run, with the twins chattering about their new pony. To Arya’s delight, both Ghost and Nymeria wandered in from one of the courtyards that the halls opened onto, padding along side by side as if they’d never been parted. Arya glanced at her brother.

“Tell me about The Imp,” she said in a low voice. Jon grimaced.

“Please don’t call him that.” 

Arya rolled her eyes and scowled. As many times as Sansa insisted the man never raped her, Arya couldn’t get that image of him out of her head. She felt a strange, eerie hatred for him, one she couldn’t shake. “Fine, how is _Lord Tyrion?”_

“Often drunk, but better than he was.”

That meant nothing to Arya. She gave a look that communicated as much and Jon hastened to explain. “He’s not a threat to us--- at least I don’t believe he is. He’s working for his cousin. He drinks copiously. Pod is watching over him a bit.”

“As if Podrick Payne doesn’t have enough to watch over. The city, the queen, the queen’s---“

Jon held up a hand, but he clearly was trying his hardest not to laugh. “He’s quite keen on the eggs.”

“Pod is quite keen on the eggs. Not a surprise.”

“Well, yes, but you know I meant Tyrion.” 

“Yes, and that bothers me.” Everything about Tyrion bothered Arya.

 “Not a surprise. Arya, Tyrion is… He might be able to help hatch them.”

“Bollocks.” In Arya’s opinion, the eggs would never hatch. Dany’s dragons would be the last and she preferred things that way. But then, she’d soured quite a bit on magic and magical creatures over the years. The eggs made beautiful playthings for her nephews, and that’s how she wanted them to remain.  “If Willas and Dany can’t do it, then why should Tyrion be able to do it?” 

“In his cups, he’s as clever as Willas Tyrell. Imagine what he might do sober.”

Arya doubted that. She’d yet to meet many people as clever as the current Hand of the King. Maybe his sister (which was a problem). The man had been the one to realize Rhaegal was carrying the eggs in the first place. But she’d never actually interacted with the Imp, as far as she knew. But now she wondered. Arya shuddered.

“I don’t want to. The man killed his father. He’s a kinslayer.” 

Jon shifted uncomfortably. “He’s been more than punished for ending Tywin’s life, let me assure you. I only wish his father could have suffered half as much for the life Tyrion ended.”

“We’ve all suffered,” Arya replied, her skin crawling. She didn’t want to debate the merits of Tywin Lannister’s death. It made her feel sick. But kinslaying was kinslaying. “But suffering isn’t the same as punishment. One has to do with justice, the other doesn't.”

Jon gave her a look of warning. “Arya… Why did you come here?”

“Nymeria dragged me. I don’t know why. I didn’t come here intending to murder Tyrion Lannister, if that is what you’re thinking.” _But it wouldn’t be a terrible thing._

“I’m glad to hear it.” But he frowned. “Please, Arya…”

“I won’t harm a hair on his head, Jon. I promise. And you know I don’t break promises I make you.”

He relaxed somewhat. Arya sighed wearily. “How’s my sister?”

Jon hesitated. “I’m not sure. This reappearance has certainly set her on edge. While in Casterly Rock, she was constantly checking on the children in the middle of the night. She’s calmed a bit since we’ve gotten back. Ghost and Dany calm her a bit. But she’s healthy, at least. Nani doesn’t let her out of her sight.”

“Are you keeping the Daynes nearby?” Arya had an immense love for the Smallwood-Dayne clan. 

Jon nodded. “Ned cannot wait to see you, by the way.”

Arya relaxed and smiled a bit. The two of them turned into Jon and Sansa’s little family wing. It was like a little house within Maegor’s Holdfast, complete with living areas for them and the children, parlors, a dining room, and even its own private garden that connected to the Queen’s area. It was partly modeled on the Maidenvault, with lots of open areas and natural light. It even had a glass garden that grew out of the main parlor where a myriad of plants were kept. When Ravella saw it, she gasped and ran up to it, looking at all the blossoms in excitement. Arya smiled. She’d been waiting for her daughter to see this for a while, but certain concerns had kept the Warden of the North from having her daughter accompany her on her brief trips to court over the years. But every time she’d seen Jon and Sansa’s little glass garden, she couldn’t help but think about how much Ravella would love it.

Her royal cousins waited impatiently. “Come on!” Aemon said eagerly, “We want to show you your room!”

Ravella pulled herself away reluctantly, glancing at her mother, who nodded. 

“Drink?” Jon offered, walking over to a container in a far corner of the foyer-like room. “I imagine the journey was exhausting.”

Arya smiled. “In the best way, Brother. I was meant for an exhausting life.”

They sat at a small table as Jon handed Arya a cup of Dornish Red. “I’m glad you finally brought her to court. It was time. I promise you, I’ve taken every measure to insure her safety. Da-The queen just wants to make sure everyone knows she’s staying vigilant. She can’t afford to be seen as unaware of anything involving… well, you know.”

 _Baratheons. But Gendry’s never been a Baratheon. That fat shit never even knew he existed. That was forty years ago, and she’s as secure as Visenya’s Hill._ Arya sighed. “I won’t have it said that I’m hiding my child. I have no reason to.”

“I’d never let anything happen to her, I promise you that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t; neither would I.” Arya shifted uncomfortably. “Why would anyone wish harm on such a sweet child?" 

Saying such a thing actually bothered her. She’d seen enough to know people wished harm on children, no matter how sweet and innocent, all of the time. _The world is madness._ She sometimes wondered what was wrong with her, that she could possibly bring a child into it. She only thanked the gods that Ravella wouldn’t inherit Winterfell. Robb and his brothers were ahead of her, which many people thought would offend the Warden of the North, but it didn’t. Arya had enough horrors in her life to worry about without the added pressure of having an heiress for a daughter. Being heir to Winterfell would only bring more unsavory attention and less freedom Ravella’s way. As things were, her daughter had the freedom to choose what to do with her life, unencumbered by birthright, but bolstered by privilege and name. There were few people in this world Arya pitied as much as her niece and eldest nephew, whose lives were set in stone before they were even born.

 “How’re things up North?” Jon asked, clearly uncomfortable.

“We’re more ready for spring than anyone, but we intend to be more ready for Winter than anyone else as well,” Arya replied, happy for the change of subject. “I’ve got all manner of documents for you lot to read when we’re settled.”

“Speaking of which, where is your husband?”

“Dining in private.” Arya’s lips curled. “We brought Henrick as well.”

“Ah.” Jon nodded knowingly. “Honestly, Sweet Sister, you have the oddest home life.”

“Thank you. We can’t all be as absurdly traditional as yourself.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Daenerys:

When the night of her dinner with Tyrion Lannister arrived, she felt a bit more grateful for it than she expected. 

Evening meals were typically designated as family time. They were the meals she took with her blood, be they her actual relatives (Jon and his family), bloodriders, or those that were close enough to her in spirit to be counted as her own (Missandei, Barristan, Grey Worm).

Since their return from Casterly Rock, her blood relations had spent every evening with her. And she’d felt ecstatic. She missed them. She missed her big, beautiful family. She missed burying her face in Aemon’s silver-gold hair. She missed watching Naerys and Robb try to sneak books into the dining room. She missed Brandon feeding Ghost table scraps. She missed Jon’s rare, deadpan remarks and Sansa’s weary sighs.

So she put off meeting Tyrion Lannister for weeks in favor of listening to the children chatter about Casterly Rock.

Then it all went to hell.

Two days ago, Naerys came to her chambers after dinner, looking nervous. Dany had her grand-niece sit with her upon a pile of cushions in front of the fire and gave her some cider to drink. “What’s bothering you?”

Naerys stared at her cup. “… Why is Mama suddenly so afraid of me being around men?”

The question rang through the air like a thunderclap. It had a thousand answers. Dany took a deep breath. “Because… Because you are taking the first steps towards womanhood and coming to an age when…”

 _When I was married to Drogo. When your mother was wed to Tyrion Lannister._ Daenerys stopped speaking, took a sip of her cider, then continued. “When you’re going to draw a new sort of attention.”

“Yes but… I’m a princess!” Naerys protested. “I just don’t understand. I’ve got everything in the world to protect me.”

_I was a princess, then a queen. Your mother was a queen. I was practically born a beggar, but your mother was born within the walls of Winterfell. Neither of us were safe. She was not safe wearing moonstones and silk surrounded by guards. I was not safe from my own brother. Even after I’d conquered cities and raised dragons, I had to give myself to a man who tried to poison me. While she soaked herself in the blood of her family’s enemies, the man who crowned her raped her._

“Sometimes, Naerys, things happen that defy all manner of odds. Your mother knows this. She just wants to do everything in her power to protect you, including teaching you to be wary.”

“I thought becoming a woman meant I’d be stronger and greater,” Naerys replied, “Not that I’d have more to be afraid of.”

“It can mean both. It all depends on what sort of woman you intend to be.”

“I don’t want to be scared like her.” 

Dany’s eyes narrowed. “Your mother is just trying to make sure that you are more prepared for the world than she was, so that you don’t end up---“

She stopped then, horrified. She’d said too much. _That is not my story to tell._

Unfortunately, her niece seized upon this. “End up like who? Her? Something happened to her. I know it, Aunt Dany. Who did it to her? Was it Lord Tyrion? Is that why she visits my chambers every night now? Is that why I’m not allowed to be around him?”

Daenerys shook her head. “Naerys, this is something you need to discuss with your mother, not me.” 

“No! Tell me!” Tears sprung to the girl’s violet eyes. “Just tell me!”

Daenerys found herself holding back her own tears. _I can’t tell you, Child. I can’t tell you. I don’t have the right to do it. What is it you want to hear? Do you want to hear about how the first time I saw her, she was half-naked and dirty and on trial for her own rape? How, when I looked at the famed Red Wolf, I saw that little girl who had been tormented and touched by her own brother? How the two of us, for a long stretch of time, felt we had no one in the world but the men who treated us like dogs? How I had to preside over this trial and have my best friend read out the accusations against a woman who had known every hell? How she was treated like an animal, like livestock. How she was younger than you are now the first time a crowd gazed upon her naked breasts and laughed as she was beaten? How she had to look into the faces of men and boys who had threatened and hurt her family and tell them how she loved them? Do you want to hear about how she’d lived through things that drew the pity from men who had known death itself?_

Daenerys could not do it. All of them had worked so hard to create a new age, a better one. To give Naerys and her brothers a life that would be better, happier, and safer than the ones their parents and aunts had known. The truth would change Naerys’s life forever, and the only one who had the right to do that was the woman that had given her life in the first place.

 _It’s not my story to tell._ So she sent Naerys away. After that, the betrayed look on the girl’s face was almost too much to bear.

So, oddly enough, the mutilated face of Tyrion Lannister was actually easier to look upon.

Podrick was an absolute nervous wreck. “He drinks quite a bit, and, well, he can be uncouth. Please don’t hate him. He’s seen horrible things.”

Dany shrugged. She could use some filth in her life. So when she sat down before the roast pheasant, mushroom soup, and the brother of the man who had killed her father, she didn’t even care.

Lord Tyrion was hosted in more public dining chambers, far grander than the ones she tended to use. Scenes from the Dance of the Dragons decorated the walls in mural and tapestry, and the famed hero of Blackwater looked upon her with unimpressed, mismatched eyes. The look of a cynic.

 _Thank you for not raping my good-niece,_ Daenerys almost said. She instantly felt a bit ill. So she tried a different tack. “Lord Tyrion, they tell me you’re clever. And there are a few close to me who say you have been kind in your own way.”

Tyrion Lannister was easily the ugliest man she’d ever seen: noseless, wrinkled, brutish. Dany felt an absolute fascination with his face. But for a moment, it softened when it looked at Pod, sitting across from the son of Tywin Lannister, looking a bit green. That softness almost made up for the missing nose. _It’s true._

“Your Grace, I…. It has been a good long time since I’ve shown my unique brand of kindness, and even longer since I’ve practiced that virtue in a more typical way. I’m not a good person.” 

This confession, for whatever reason, made Dany instantly feel something for him. She remembered what Jon had once said about his friend Sam, _there’s a certain courage to admitting oneself a coward._ She wondered if that could apply to outright moral dissolution. 

“I believe that. You’re a kinslayer, for one. 

Tyrion gave a strange, high-pitched laugh. “If that was a sin, then that is the least of what I’ve committed. I killed a monster that night. If it makes you feel any better, he declared right before he died that I was no son of his.” 

Daenerys remembered Viserys when he died, and how that shrieking coward was the man who used to be her brother. She’d sat back as Drogo drowned Viserys in melted gold and declared that he was no dragon. _I watched him die, and I did not protest. He tried to kill my son._ She wondered if her inaction was more justified than Tyrion’s sin. _Horrors are written upon that face, and Tywin Lannister is responsible for many of them._ Still… 

The dragon queen swallowed and tried not to see herself in the man before her. _If my face matched my sins, it would look like his._ “There are courts that would say that means nothing.”

“My father did everything in his power to see me dead. My sister as well. I’m afraid there’s a nasty predilection that runs in my family. Aside from the drunkenness and incest, I mean. Ironic, isn’t it? We Lannisters had a tendency to insist that we did everything to protect our family, and yet we kept slaughtering each other. Utterly mad, the lot of us.” 

“I don’t think that’s very fair to your cousin,” replied Daenerys. She didn’t have the same affection for Martyn Lannister that many did, but that was partly because the man was so annoyingly sane. He didn’t even have the decency to at least be as ambitious as the Tyrells. Even Willas, who was a genuinely good soul, had great ambition. But Martyn Lannister was just hard-working and willing to believe in something bigger than himself. It could be a little cloying. It was like the current Lord of Casterly Rock was determined to serve as a counterbalance for all the insanity that preceded him. 

Dany refused to impose the same restrictions on herself. She felt that trying to be perfect would likely be what would undo what sanity she had left. So she didn’t appreciate Martyn’s steadfast perfection too much. Still, the man was rational and good.

“Well, he’s an exception, the sod. He’s the sort of wholesome that deserves a kick in the mouth.”

 The Queen of the Andals cocked her head. She glanced at Pod. He looked back. And all of a sudden, Dany managed to laugh.


	8. Records

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion in the library. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for her beta work!

Chapter Eight: Records

Tyrion: 

He’d begun spending the late evening in the royal library. He’d come to this domelike chamber often during his court days, when Robert Baratheon ruled and drew the less-than-literate types to court. In the days of the Baratheons, men who wished to hunt and fight and drink and whore made up a good chunk of the Robert’s attendants, while the rest were Lannister sycophants who spent all their time wheeling and dealing and flattering their queen from behind cups of wine. The only major court figure who ever had a great love of reading was Jon Arryn, but he was too busy actually running the realms to enjoy the delights of study.

Thus, in those days Tyrion could often look forward to quiet times in the library, with no one around to glare, ask him what he was “up to”, or call him “Imp.” He was often the only one in the room, surrounded by nothing and no one but the great chroniclers of the ages, the heroes and heroines of fact and fiction, and his dreams.

Things had changed, and Tyrion found that displaying itself the most in the library. When he first ventured there one early morning he found, to his surprise, a man and a woman sitting at one of the study tables, heads together.

The man he recognized by the elegantly carved oaken crutch leaned against the table, his chestnut curls, and the gold chain falling across his fine velvet doublet. Willas Tyrell, Hand of the Queen. Tyrion stiffened a bit, feeling distinctly uncomfortable to see the heir of the family that had framed him for regicide. _And it’s all worked out splendidly for him, I see,_ Tyrion thought angrily as he eyed the Hand’s chain.

But his interest was peaked by the pretty, young dark-skinned woman the Hand was speaking to so intently.

In Robert’s day, Prince Jalabar Xo was a distinctive sight with his Summer Island looks and coal-black skin. But Daenerys’s court was decidedly less monochromatic, having brought in numerous people from the East, including former slaves. Many of the Unsullied guards that patrolled the halls were taken from Summer Island areas, and a number of her Dothraki attendants were of varied skin colors as well. The people of Dorne were a more common sight, too.

And they weren’t just  curiosities like  Xo had been. They said it was possible that an Unsullied might be the next Lord Commander of the Queensguard. Lord Allyrion sat on the council. There was supposedly the Summer Islands freedwoman who was on the council as well. And it was said that the princess’s midwife held far more influence over the royal family than her lack of title might suggest.

The woman sitting next to the Hand was quite young, in her twenties it seemed, with golden eyes. Her curly hair was pinned back away from her round face, and she held herself with the sort of hardened pride that Tyrion normally saw in veteran soldiers. She was gowned elegantly as well, in silk of pale gold, but her fingers appeared to be stained with ink.

Looking at her, Tyrion could understand why Lord Willas would seek out the woman’s company. _Too bad I happened to come along._ He hesitated, though. He didn’t need to make any enemies. But before he could withdraw, the woman spotted him. 

She didn’t seem the least bit dismayed or embarrassed to be found like that, though she did flinch when her eyes fell upon Tyrion’s lack of nose. 

A jolt of anger went through the Lannister, and he glared at her.

Willas Tyrell turned in his seat, facing Tyrion. The Hand had the typical Tyrell prettiness, though with an air of distinction in his eyes that Tyrion remembered Loras, Garlan, and even Mace lacking. _There’s a sharpness there,_ Tyrion noted. It was a sharpness that Tyrion had only seen in flashes from Lady Margaery, but  constantly in Lady Olenna. Indeed, when Willas’s eyes fell upon Tyrion, a chill went down his spine as he remembered the old woman who had so slickly framed him for regicide.

Those eyes seemed to be reading his thoughts, for Willas grabbed his crutch and got to his feet. “My Lord of Lannister. It is a pleasure to be acquainted at last.”

“Lord Tyrell.” Mace was dead. And it was odd addressing this elegant man by that oaf’s title. “A pleasure.”

 “May I introduce my compatriot, Lady Missandei Naathia of Unsullied Keep, Mistress of Letters?”

 _Oh._ This made things more uncomfortable. Lady Missandei Naathia. _Damn._ Tyrion had been picturing someone older. She hadn’t been at his introduction to court, something Pod remarked as odd, as “she’s rarely away from the queen.” _I may have just come upon a dangerous secret held by two of the most powerful people in the country. And I have few means to protect myself. Best not out myself as being privy to this little interaction._  

His own vulnerability seemed omnipresent, but never stronger than at that moment. Willas seemed calm.

“A pleasure, My Lady,” Tyrion said, struggling to bow. Willas’s mouth twitched.

“Someone you may also like to meet,” the Hand said, looking over at a cluster of shelves. “Darling!” He called out. “Someone just arrived!” 

There was the sound of heavy footfalls and a rustling of skirts. A full-figured woman with a long, green braid emerged from the shelves, looking eager. When she spotted Tyrion, her jaw dropped.

“By the Mother.” She marched over, clutching her velvet skirts. “You.”

“Me?” Tyrion had never met this woman. But she was glaring at him.

“What part did you play in the Red Wedding, Imp?” she sneered.

“Darling----“ Willas said. He seemed a bit perplexed.

“Don’t ‘Darling’ me, Willas. This is a matter of the North.”

Tyrion gaped. He thanked the gods that the truth was on his side. “I had no knowledge of it until my father informed me of Robb Stark’s death, I promise you, My Lady. I never harmed any of the Starks. My father had me well out of power and counting coins by the time the plot was in motion.”

“Lady Arya and Nymeria are coming to court,” she warned him, eyes like venom, “And they can smell a lie. If you had anything to do with it, Lannister, the She-Wolf of Winterfell will know.”

“Oh? Is Princess Sansa not the ‘She-wolf’? It’s hard to keep track.”

“Princess Sansa is the Red Wolf. And why she hasn’t used your blood to dye her silks yet, I do not know.” 

Willas limped over awkwardly. “Lord Tyrion, this is my lady wife, Wylla Manderly Tyrell of White Harbor and Highgarden.”

Wylla pulled back then, assumed a look of serenity, and curtsied as if she hadn’t just threatened him.

Tyrion excused himself.

The library, he found on subsequent visits, was often filled with people, many of whom liked to send glares his way, Lord Allyrion or Loreza Sand. Princess Sansa and her ladies were common visitors, and they seemed uncomfortable about being around him, as did Princess Naerys and her brother.

Throughout the day, Tyrion found the library, which once seemed so enormous, constantly filled with people. And it was only the late night when he could find some real solitude. There were often other people there then, too. But few enough that he could get lost among the enormous shelves and never have to interact with them.

As it turned out, when Lady Arya Stark did arrive, she ended up disappointing Lady Tyrell. Tyrion’s interactions with the other Stark were brief and distant, a couple of forced pleasantries when they accidentally encountered one another. But ever since she’d arrived, a new sense of foreboding overtook the Lannister. He felt, oddly, like he was being watched more closely at all times. And when Arya Stark did look at him, it was with a look so poisonous and threatening that Tyrion felt he was back at trial, being slandered by his father and sister. 

It was only in the pages of a book that he could shake this feeling.

The night after he’d taken dinner with the queen, he found a refreshing new idea to occupy his thoughts. The dinner was an awkward meal. Daenerys Targaryen was an impressive figure most of the time, one could not deny that. And when Tyrion looked at her, he saw the first ruler in a long while that didn’t make him feel utterly horrified. But some of the things she said had him biting his tongue more often than he bit into his meal.

Every time she referred to herself as “The Mother of Dragons”, Tyrion had to resist the urge to ask if it was a difficult labor.

She was clearly a woman who thought much of herself, and while Tyrion couldn’t blame her, he also found that trait amusing no matter who possessed it. There was arrogance there, though, no matter what her deeds. It wasn’t as egregious as his sister’s--- again, unlike Cersei, Daenerys actually earned and maintained her power—but it was there.

Tyrion had seen too much to be truly awed by anything. _Even dragons,_ he noted with extreme bitterness. So he found Daenerys more ridiculous than he could ever admit.

But between all the pretentious word-play---- The Mother of Dragons’ attempts at humor were shakier than she realized--- something had come up that had seized Tyrion’s interest.

“Unfortunately, I may never meet my grandchildren. I had so looked forward to raising them with my niece and nephews,” she lamented over the roast quail and Dornish Red.

Tyrion ignored the hilarity of reptilian grandchildren and seized upon this. “So the clutch of eggs? No sign of hatching?”

“Rhaegal built a nest years ago,” Daenerys admitted. “But no matter what the setting, the eggs do not hatch.”

Tyrion had read of the Targaryen  attempts--- from the ancient successes to the catastrophic modern failures--- to hatch eggs before. Archmaester Draven had written a little known gem of a history about it that Tyrion had discovered years and years ago in Casterly Rock’s library. When Tywin caught him reading it one day, he’d sneered at his son. “The best maesters in the Citadel laughed at that rag. I should have had it burned.” Jaime had helped Tyrion hide it before his father could destroy it. He even got Cersei to keep it a secret. From then on, it was his favorite text.

Tyrion had kept the book hidden for years. He had since realized the volume’s fate--- Cersei had burned all of his things in the old Tower of the Hand for the occasion of Tommen’s wedding. Reminder of that book was a strange ache.

But he was happy for that ache, oddly enough. It was something. Something emotional. Something that reminded him of when he was fascinated and excited by dragons. 

So after dinner that evening, he set out to see if there was a copy of Archmaester Draven’s _History Nested_ in the royal library.

Almost no one was there when Tyrion found the wing devoted to dragons and Targaryen history. So the dwarf was free to climb the slowly and awkwardly climb the ladders and comb the rows without worries about giggles or suspicious eyes.

But he couldn’t find it.

 _No, it must be here._ Tyrion took his time, double and triple-checking. Draven’s other works were present. _Accounts of Flight Analyzed. Madness and Greatness, Fire and Blood_ \--- that of all books Tyrion never expected to see in the library of a Targaryen monarch.

He expanded his search. He looked at the shelves devoted to farming and animal husbandry. He looked over every history shelf in the room. He did not stop, though his leg and shoulder ached like the Seven Hells and his eyes felt like they were going to dry up and wither to dust inside his skull. The torches in the library began to dim until finally Tyrion cursed and carried a candlestick with him. He had to find the book. He had to.

_Something there can help. I know it. I can help. I can matter._

As he climbed down from one ladder in, of all areas, the legal history section--- there were a couple of records in there of mock trials Aerys the Mad had given Blood Mages who had disappointed him--- he tripped and fell a couple rungs. The candelabra he carried fell as well and Tyrion had to scramble to keep the flames from spreading. In the end, he managed to stamp the flames out completely, leaving him in utter darkness. 

Tyrion dropped to the ground, the shelves looming over him like specters in the darkness. They loomed over him like everyone had, determined to keep him in the shadows. He wept.

Even books had failed him.

 _It’s over, you stupid shit. You’ll never be anything more than a drunken, lust-filled lecher, never be more than Tywin writ small._ Tyrion curled up on the ground, chastising himself. _What did you think would happen?_

Eventually, he just grew tired. _Not_ _that it matters. No one is around to hear me. Not that they’d care if they did._

“What’s that?”

A voice in the distance. A child’s voice.

Then footsteps. Tiny ones. They grew louder.

Then they halted.

“Oh gods!” Tyrion knew that voice. It was the voice that giggled over tomes of _The Japes of Great Men Good and Bad_ and _Florian and Jonquil’s Letters: A Myth of Epistles._ The voice that led noisy children and adolescents into the library each day. The voice that screamed when he grabbed her and called her Tysha.

“Naerys, no!” Tyrion recognized that voice now, too. The one that often accompanied his sister’s, but spoke softer. The one that gushed about Nymeria, his aunt’s wolf.

“Lord Tyrion?”

Begrudgingly, the man turned. A light was glowing above him. Princess Naerys, clad in her lamb’s wool dressing gown, stood above him. She looked rather conflicted, pulling back when he lifted his head. Prince Robb stood in the background, also holding a candle, looking nervous.

“We brought Ghost with us,” she said at once. Apparently on cue, the white wolf’s immense head peered around one of the shelves.

“I see that, Smart Girl.” Tyrion didn’t like the wolves, but he could understand the family’s attachment to them. “Does he often accompany you while you are out of bed? I can’t imagine his master would approve of your outings.”

“Ghost sleeps with us a lot. And he never says a word. And I can tell when Father’s inside him. Can you keep as quiet as he can?”

Tyrion felt determined to ignore the part about their father being “inside him”--- some things he did not need to know--- and focused on the last part. He looked up into Naerys’s eyes. Her words meant to imply a threat. 

“I can’t imagine your mother would much appreciate me being alone with you two in the dead of night. So yes, I can be quiet.”

Naerys sighed with relief. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just faced with my own utter uselessness.” He pushed himself to his feet with a groan.

“Someone who likes the library like you do could never be useless.”

Tyrion was in no mood for false platitudes from a child. “I’ll leave.”

“No! Maybe you can help us!” Naerys smiled eagerly while her brother made a noise of disbelief. “We’re looking for books about our mother.”

The Lannister groaned. “I’m afraid I haven’t read many.” He’d been trying to put the Starks, particularly that Stark, out of his mind for weeks.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t help us. There have to be some records.”

“Naerys…” Robb said. “We shouldn’t.”

“Ghost protects us,” the princess insisted, “And I have to know.” 

She sighed and looked back at Tyrion. “There’s… My mother… She’s scared of something. She’s worried about me being around men. And she’s hiding something. You knew her when she was my age. If you can’t help us find a book… Could you at least tell me about her?”

 _She was soft-spoken, sweet-smelling, terrified, untrusting, cautious, in love with stories of gallant knights, wept enough tears to fill Blackwater Bay, and told enough lies for Littlefinger to make her his protege._ Tyrion swallowed. “She was the prettiest girl at court and very courteous and dutiful. She’d never have ventured out of bed in the middle of the night.”

“You were married to her, even if it was only for her own protection.  Surely you know more than that.”

“She prayed a lot,” offered Tyrion.

Naerys groaned. “Fine. I’ll look myself.”

She marched past him towards one of the shelf ladders. “These are the legal histories.  She was thought to have killed Joffrey the Illborn once. Maybe there’s some record of it here.  That will give me answers if you won’t.” 

Tyrion hesitated. It was quite dangerous for children to be climbing ladders in the middle of the night, especially unsupervised. He thought of Bran Stark and his stomach twisted. _I don’t need to be blamed for that, too._ “Get off of there! It is too dangerous.”

Naerys snorted. “I ride a dragon.”

_Don’t remind me._

Tyrion groaned. “Look, get down. Let me find some legal records on her. If I do, will you two go back to bed?”

Naerys smiled. “Fair enough.”

Tyrion ignored his aching limbs and mounted the ladder once more. His own trial had mentioned Sansa. So he looked for the section involving court cases that had happened before a royal tribunal. Then he moved to look at more recent cases and…

Tyrion’s jaw dropped. _The Case and Trial of Sansa Hardyng Stark, Daughter of the North and Future Princess of the Realm._ Her case had its own book. _How…?_ Not even Tyrion’s trial had its own book. _When did she go to trial?_

Hand shaking, he pulled the book free and climbed down. “I think I found some answers,” he said, “But forget going back to bed. I want to look at them with you.”

The three of them found a nice empty table. Naerys helped him into one of the chairs. When they set the book down, the children, who had seemed so eager seconds ago, seemed to hesitate. The book had a simple brown leather cover, free from design. But even Tyrion felt a little bit of fear, as if he thought the book might catch on fire if he opened it.

 _Stop it, you fool._ He grunted and pulled the front cover open.

At once, a large, ornate drawing greeted his eyes. Tyrion’s jaw dropped. It was of the throne room, with a white haired woman sitting upon the Iron Throne, her violet eyes hard. Standing next to the throne, was a dark haired man in black looking distressed. Among the colorfully-garbed people who stood at the sidelines were two lords pointing accusing fingers at the center of the room. Tyrion recognized their symbols as those of Houses Coldwater and Moore. The object of their pointing knelt at the center of the throne room, long legs thin and bare. She looked up at the throne in horrified anguish, her hands up and pleading. Her red hair was a mess, and she was clad in nothing but a small white shift. Aside from himself, Tyrion couldn’t remember seeing a more pitiful image. _No, that can’t be…_

“…That can’t be Mama, could it?” Robb asked, sounding horrified.

“No. No.” Naerys insisted. “Papa and Aunt Daenerys would never let her end up like that. Never. That’s… That’s someone else.”

“No, Princess,” Tyrion said hoarsely. “I don’t think that is.”

He shuddered and turned the page. Petyr Baelish with his mischievous green-grey eyes greeted him. The next image was of a young boy with red hair, blue eyes, and dimples.

“That’s Eddie, our brother. He died.” 

Tyrion’s hands began to shake. _He looks like one of Sansa’s brothers._

The next image was clearly of Sansa in the prime of her youth. She pouted prettily from the canvas, in a gown with a neckline so low Tyrion wondered how it didn’t spill open. He looked at the way her breasts seemed on the brink of bursting from the lacings and his cock twitched. For whatever reason, he felt ashamed of himself. He turned the page.

A list of charges appeared. The children gasped. Tyrion felt his stomach turn as Prince Robb began to read. 

“Lady Sansa Lannister…”

He knew from that line that this wasn’t going to be good. Why he allowed them to keep reading after that baffled him. At first it wasn’t so bad--- Sansa was tried for some ridiculous crimes, but nothing completely heartbreaking, and the assurance of the outcome was enough to lessen the blow. Obviously, no one considered her a traitor. 

But then came the reasoning for all of this. Petyr Baelish’s name dropped and it was like wildfire spreading across the Blackwater. His heart sank upon hearing about the man forcing himself on her. But then it got worse. 

“ _They claim I helped Lord Baelish murder Lady Lysa and Lord Robert. That I fraudulently married Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Robert’s heir Presumptive, in order to seize full legitimate control of the Vale. They claim that I happily and willingly deceived them into making me Lady of the Vale and supporting my campaigns to reclaim the North and the Trident by marrying Harry. That I lied about both being a maid and that I lied when I said my marriage to Tyrion Lannister went unconsummated in order to secure the match. They say that not only was I lying about Tyrion having never touched me, but that before and during my marriage to Harrold, I was Lord Baelish’s lover. They also claim that my son, Eddard, was not Harry’s child, but Littlefinger’s bastard. The Lords also accuse me of purposely passing Eddard off as Harry’s trueborn son as to cement Baelish’s and my own control of the Vale and install a Baelish as Lord of the Eyrie. Alleged, I helped Baelish murder my husband after we’d taken back Winterfell so that Petyr and I could be married and install ourselves as King and Queen of the North, Trident, and Vale, and that I only killed him to avert suspicion of my complicity in his crimes.”_

Prince Robb read this out in a shocked voice. Tyrion buried his head in his hands. _Gods above, they were trying her for her own rape._

“Do you remember Mama saying that Petyr Baelish forced himself on her?” Robb asked his sister in a small voice. Tyrion peaked through his fingers to see Naerys shake her head.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Tyrion said, sitting up and grabbing for the book. “We don’t need to—“

 “---No!” Naerys said, looking angry. “I have to know."

They got to the point where Lysa Arryn tried to murder Sansa. _That crazy old bitch, her own niece?_ He’d known the woman was mad but he’d not realized she’d be capable of killing her own blood. _Over Littlefinger?_

He should have killed the man when he had the chance. _And I had it. And I didn’t take it. Instead I let him frame me for regicide and steal my wife out from under my nose._

It was all laid out in Sansa’s testimony. Then they got to the death blow.

“ _Lord Baelish began to act on his lust towards me.”_ Naerys read out. The boy began to cry. Tyrion shuddered. 

“ _My marriage to Tyrion Lannister was unconsummated. I was still a maid. And for me to have a valid marriage, I had to be a true virgin. So Lord Baelish forced himself on me in less conventional ways, making sure not to breach my Maiden’s place.”_

Baelish was the most prolific pimp in Westeros. Tyrion shut his eyes. _She was a sweet girl, gently bred, innocent, and terrified. And he did this to her?_ He remembered their wedding night. Sansa was shaking like mad. _How long did this go on?_

 _“I was coerced into allowing him to do as he wished with my body, knowing that if I didn’t comply, it could mean my death_.” Naerys hesitated then. Tyrion went to take the book once more, but Robb grabbed it.

 “ _After a couple of initial struggles, I eventually gave up trying to fight him off and allowed him to do as he wished. I consider every intimate encounter I had with him during that time period to be rape. However, it was the sort of rape that allowed me to go to my marriage bed technically a maid.”_ Robb began to weep. “Why would someone do something like that to her?” 

 _Why indeed? What had she done to anyone?_  His dutiful, good little wife. He remembered musing about demanding her maidenhead the evening of Joffrey’s wedding and thinking she might not cry more than she had to. She was lovely and comely, yes, but still a child. Disgust for himself overwhelmed him.

 _“My maiden’s sheet bled that night. Harrold Hardyng was the first man I ever had traditional intercourse with. Petyr didn’t start raping me in the conventional sense until after I was pregnant with my son_ ,” Naerys read out.

 “ _After Harry died, I had no one to turn to, and I sought Petyr as a source of comfort._ ” Her daughter cried out at this. “ _It was after Harry’s death that our relationship became somewhat consensual. That is, until the night of Lord Baelish’s death. Until that evening, I’d had no idea that he’d killed Harry_.”

“Why? Why did she stay with him?” Robb asked. “Was she that alone?”

 _She was that alone. She was always that alone._ Tyrion stared down at his lap. _We killed her father and her mother and her brother. We chased her sister from the capital. Cersei even ordered that wolf of hers butchered and had her little friend removed from the capital--- who knows what happened to her. That little girl was so horribly alone, and she was terrified._ “Sometimes,” Tyrion said, “We feel we have so few to turn to that we’ll look to the worst people to take care of us.”

Naerys growled and pulled the book further towards herself.

“Naerys, maybe you’ve read---“

“No. I’m reading all of it,” the princess insisted. She sobbed. “I wanted to know. And now I will.”

 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Naerys:

When they’d gotten to their mother’s exoneration, Robb ran crying from the room. Naerys did not run, but she did weep.

She couldn’t take this anymore. “It’s all lies! All of it! No one could do that! No one _hurt my mother!”_

“Princess…” Tyrion Lannister said, his voice a croak. He sounded and looked like an ugly frog, and Naerys hated him. He was supposed to be like the books said. Witty and funny and brave and right about everything. Instead he was this ugly, drunken frog man who couldn’t even find a book that wasn’t filled with filthy lies.

“Princess” sounded like a joke now. A joke at her expense. _My mother is a princess,_ Naerys thought. _She’s my Papa’s princess. She’s the people’s Winter Princess. As beautiful and pure as freshly fallen snow, strong enough to hold back the winds, her heart keeps the people warm. Winter couldn’t hold her back. Winter fell to her. That’s what the songs all say. How could such a woman be Baelish’s bitch? It’s all lies. This is book is made of lies. This never happened. Aunt Dany would never bring Mama  to trial. She loves Mama. Papa would never let this happen. She saved the North. How could anyone let this happen to a woman who saved the North?_

“Shut up,” she sneered. “You were her husband. Why didn’t you protect her? My Papa protects her.  My papa _loves_ her. He protected the realms of men while you were… what? What were _you_ doing when this happened, huh? Drinking wine?”

“Probably,” he said this so sadly. “I was in Essos.” 

“Doing nothing important. So you don’t know. This didn’t happen. You guarded the Blackwater, all of King’s Landing, but you couldn’t protect my mother? Did you…” Naerys shivered. “Did you touch her too? Did you hurt her?”

“The Imp.” That’s what the books said everyone called him. _As he outwitted and saved them all, the cowardly agents of his evil sister and father sneered and called him ‘The Imp.’_ Naerys always cursed those people, when she read about them, her heart aching for the poor, small man who had saved a city. ‘ _If I knew him, I’d have called him the Good Lion. Or the Wit of Casterly Rock.’_ She used to think like that. Now she scoffed at that and wondered if the name wasn’t deserved. It was all she could see now.

The look in his mismatched eyes, though…. Naerys felt her heart sink. “No. No, you never touched her. Because you were good and kind and these are all lies anyways. No one ever did this. This didn’t happen. You only married her to keep her safe and then she went to her real marriage bed a maid. And Lord Harrold loved her and gave her a baby and died for her. And then the bad men killed her son and Aunt Dany’s dragons killed them and she brought Mother to the capital so bad men couldn’t hurt her and Papa fell in love with her and married her and… _She was fine! She survived!_ No one could ever… She was…

Naerys gasped. She began turning the pages until she got to the portrait of the man with the nasty green-grey eyes. _Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger._ Naerys knew he was a bad man who betrayed her mother and the Starks and killed Lord Harrold and tried to keep Mama a prisoner until Mama killed him. _She killed him. She bashed his head in. He couldn’t touch her. He tried and she bashed his head in._ The man in the picture was small and he had piggy eyes and an air of confidence he didn’t deserve. Naerys had seen men like this. Father and Aunt Dany and Missandei always make fun of men with that expression. _Pompous Lordlings. Pompous lordlings can’t hurt my mother.  They flatter my mother and they obey her and serve her because she’s the one who takes care of them. They need her. Littlefinger. No one called ‘Littlefinger’ could hurt my mother._

She knew he’d betrayed her grandfather. But Naerys knew about her grandfather. And her grandfather, while honorable and good, wasn’t very smart. It was a thing Naerys never dared say out loud, but it was true. She’d known that since she was six. Lord Eddard Stark wasn’t very clever, neither was his eldest son. That’s why they died. _Stupid men with great power always destroy themselves and others._ That’s what Missandei and Lord Willas said. Even the good, kind, brave, honorable stupid men, like Eddard Stark.

 _But Mama is clever and that’s why she lived._ Everyone knew Mama was clever. That was another thing Lord Willas and Missandei said. And Aunt Margaery. And Papa. And Aunt Dany. Everyone _knew_ that. The cleverest people in the realm all _knew_ that. So she couldn’t be hurt so badly by Littlefinger. It’s why Littlefinger went after her husband, and then got killed by Mama. _He couldn’t touch her._  

Naerys shrieked and tore the portrait out. She began tearing the paper to bits. _No. No. You can’t touch my mother. You’re nothing. You’re nothing. Nothing. Nothing._

“Child, stop that---“ Lord Tyrion said, reaching out to grab at her.

“My mother is clever,” she spat at Lord Tyrion. “Do you know that? If you were ever smart at all, you must have known that. You knew her. You were married.”

His eyes widened. “I---- Your mother is a very smart woman. But I knew her, married her when she was a child. She---“

“She was a smart child, too!” Naerys cried, angry. “Children can be clever. Just a couple years later, she saved the North! You can’t save the North and not be smart. Or strong! Or good! The Boltons couldn’t take her down! They took down my stupid Uncle Robb, who never lost a battle and had a big direwolf!”

She seethed and clutched herself. She knew the history. She knew all of the history of the North. She and Robb read about it all of the time. And her mother put an end to so much pain. The idea that someone so pathetic as Petyr Baelish could hurt her mother just didn’t work. It _didn’t._  

“They skinned hundreds of people. They had been enemies to the Starks for hundreds of years! But my mother wiped them out! She did what no other Stark managed. She made sure no man was ever skinned again in the North! She did it during the War of the Dawn when winter raged all around! She was the Red Wolf! And she was good and beautiful and brave and strong and _clever!”_

Naerys banged her fist on the tabletop, unable to believe this. “ _Winter_ couldn’t stop her! How could one pompous little lordling rape her? If he had… She’d have killed him. She’d have killed him sooner. She would have. It’s all lies. No one rapes my mother. No one could lay a hand on her unless she wanted them to.”

Lord Tyrion reddened and looked away. All of a sudden, Naerys felt like she was Viserion in the midst of a great rage.

“What did you do to her, Imp?!” She screamed, grabbing the dwarf by the shoulders. In the book, it was said that he hadn’t raped her. But Naerys didn’t know what was true. All she knew was that she would feed the Imp to Viserion. She would. He would burn and Viserion would swallow him in one bite. _He’s small enough. He’s small and pathetic._ _And he can’t hurt me or my mother._ Naerys pounced and forced him to the ground. He cried out. Naerys cried louder.

“YOU HURT HER! You raped her! Like all of the rest! You helped them! She was just a girl and you helped them! You helped them hurt her! RAPER! RAPER! FILTHY, DISGUSTING, IMP! RAPER! MONSTER!“

He didn’t even fight back. That made her angrier. She bent down and hissed. “Do you know what you are? _Nothing._ I’m a dragon. I’m a direwolf. My mother was the _Red Wolf._ My father is the _Prince of Dragons._ My aunt is queen of half the world, Mother of Dragons, Azor Ahai reborn. My other aunt escaped from the House of Black and White, where they serve _death itself._ My blood tames the greatest beasts and slays monsters and kings. And what are you? _A filthy little dwarf. A raper. An imp._ _You think because you have a cock you can do what you like. Raper. But you’re wrong. You’re nothing but a filthy raper, a monster.”_

Tears were streaming down his deformed face. “I know…” he whispered.

Naerys screamed again. “SHE WAS JUST A GIRL! She was beautiful and strong and good! And you raped her! She was wrong! She said you were good and kind! I thought you were! I BELIEVED YOU WERE WORTH SOMETHING! I thought you were a hero! But you’re just a filthy monster, a raper, like all the rest!”

“My father…”

“SHUT UP! Your father was nothing! NOTHING! HE’S DEAD! He didn’t rape her! You did! RAPER! RAPER!”

“I didn’t want to—“

“YOU DID! YOU DID IT! YOU TOUCHED HER! YOU RAPED HER! IMP!”

“NAERYS!”

She felt hands on her shoulders yanking her off. She smelled a soft, flowery, lemony scent. One she’d known her entire life. The fight went out of her as those soft arms pulled her away. Naerys sobbed, so angry, so scared, so sad. She couldn’t look at the Imp anymore, so she turned away, clutching her mother’s rounded belly and burying her face in Mama’s soft bosom. This seemed like such a safe place, still. She wasn’t sure how.

These were the arms that held her when she cried all her life. These were the arms that held her close when she had nightmares when she was little. That swooped her up when she fell. The first time she’d heard someone say that her brother Robb would replace her as heir to the Iron Throne some day, it was her mother that held her close and told her that she’d still be able to love her brother because Robb was heir to Winterfell, and would not take her place.

Her mother’s arms always reminded her that she was safe and loved. _But Mama was hurt and raped._ She cried. “How could anyone do it? How could they hurt you? Why?”

“I’m so sorry, Sweetling.” Her mother was sobbing. That just made Naerys angry.

“Why are you sorry?” Naerys asked. She forced herself to look at the Imp again. The man’s stupid squire and Merys were kneeling over him. “Why isn’t he saying sorry? Why aren’t all of them saying sorry?!”

“Naerys, please…”

“Mama, he _raped_ you! He _touched_ you! He _hurt_ you!” 

“He did not rape me.” 

“Tyrion never laid a hand on your mother, Naerys.” 

The princess looked over. Her father was there, looking stricken and clutching a sobbing Robb to him. _When did you get here?_ “No! He said----“

“I did!” Tyrion moaned. “I put my filthy hands on her! And I---“

“ _TYRION DID NOT RAPE ME!”_

Everyone stared at her. She looked so upset. 

“….Sansa?” Father came forward and put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Tyrion… He didn’t… He didn’t rape me. He didn’t. He could have. But he didn’t. He just---“ Her voice died and an odd, faraway look came over her for a few seconds. Then she seemed to come to life again, and she shook her head. “Just… This isn’t… Naerys, what happened?”

“I just wanted to know why you were so upset. We found a book and… Now I know.” Naerys looked at the ground, horrified. “It can’t be true, right, Mama? Please tell me it’s not.”

Their eyes met. Violet on blue. And Naerys knew that the answer she was seeking would not come. And all at once it seemed she was stuck in a cold winter from which she’d never emerge.


	9. Adults and Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some big conversations are had. Arya gives some good advice. Jon talks to the twins. Naerys confronts and humbles Daenerys. Jon and Sansa discuss things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for all of her help!
> 
> Guys, you may be wondering where Tyrion is. The truth is, I already have all of his stuff written. But this chapter got WAY too long. Like, seriously, Tyrion's one POV is just as long as this chapter. It's insane. So I am putting it off for posting. I hope you enjoy this one, though. It was a tough one to write.
> 
> Also, shameful plug time!
> 
> For all of you who like following me on tumblr, please check out my articles on the Rainbow Hub! I'm writing about Game of Thrones, and doing a "Something is Rotten in Dorne" series and some essays and reviews. I have one on wht happened to Sansa as well titled, "One Girl's Rape for a Man's Story: The Real and Repetitive Problem with the Rape of Sansa Stark."
> 
> You can find my articles at the following links:
> 
> http://www.therainbowhub.com/one-girls-rape-for-a-mans-story-the-real-and-repetitive-problem-with-the-rape-of-sansa-stark/
> 
> http://www.therainbowhub.com/game-of-thrones-5-7-the-gift-review/
> 
> http://www.therainbowhub.com/something-is-rotten-in-dorne-the-uncomfortable-issue-of-race/
> 
> http://www.therainbowhub.com/something-is-rotten-in-dorne-faillaria-and-the-sand-fakes/
> 
> http://www.therainbowhub.com/something-is-rotten-in-dorne-arianne-martell-and-the-woman-problem/

Chapter Nine: Adults and Children

Jon:

He felt like he was being drawn and quartered, pieces of him fastened and ripped in four different ways. The twins were completely bewildered, begging to know what was wrong. Robb was despondent and confused and angry. Naerys was a sobbing, tear-stained mess. Sansa sat in bed, staring off in the distance. Their two eldest had sought answers and comfort. She’d answered in an oddly clinical voice. But after a while, their questions exhausted her and Jon had been forced to send them away.

 _Who to reassure first?_ He felt sick.

Jon had no idea what to say to the children. He and Sansa for years had a policy of telling their children things in pieces so they might grow up a little happier and only receive information they were ready for. But that had now blown up in their faces.

  _A child of mine attacking a defenseless, middle-aged near-cripple. My pregnant, distraught wife now forced to deal with this bombshell dropping. A man I had called a friend admitting to laying his hands on my wife when she was twelve. One son glaring daggers at me. Two more frantically wanting to know what is happening._

When Jon had told Naerys and Robb that Sansa couldn’t answer any more questions,  Robb gave Jon a filthy look and left the room, saying nothing. Naerys said something. She looked at Jon, tear-stained, and asked, “Didn’t you love her? Didn’t anyone?” Then she ran off. Sansa tried to call her back, but Naerys didn’t listen.

When Sansa was calmed and resting, Jon went looking for Naerys.  Instead, he had found Arya, clad in her brown leather jerkin, sharping Needle at a table in the grand solar. When she saw him, she put a hand up. “No, don’t go after her just now. Let her cry a bit. Let both of them cry a bit.” 

Jon scowled. “Well, what should I do, then? What would you do?”

“Oh, I’d storm in and start trying to explain myself at the worst possible moment. But just because it’s what I’d do doesn’t make it the best thing to do,” Arya sighed and laid her sword on the table. “They’re both angry and Naerys has already done and said some things she’ll likely regret later. If you try to talk to her now, when she’s still worked up, there will likely be more things for her to add to that list once she’s calmed down. How’s Sansa?”

“She’s sleeping. Exhausted, and worried, and her pulse is a bit fast, but Merys says that she’s mostly healthy. He and Nani both want her in bed for at least a week, though. Maybe more. Just to be careful.”

Arya nodded. “And you?” 

Jon walked over and sat down near his sister. “I feel so guilty. You know I defended Tyrion to Sansa? I thought she was overreacting to having him around. I made excuses for his disgusting jokes, tried to defend him. And now…”

Arya reached out and took his hand in hers. “You didn’t know.” 

“Why, though? Why didn’t I know?” Jon asked. “Why didn’t she tell me? We’ve been married for twelve years, for pity’s sake.” 

“Maybe she didn’t remember it.” 

“How does someone forget something like that?”

Jon saw Arya flinch and felt his heart sink even lower.  _Arya lost the memories of years of her life when she left the Faceless Men_. “Oh, Gods. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean---“

“No, it’s fine,” she said, swallowing heavily, “I can only… May I be honest about something? You may not like hearing this.” 

“I’m used to hearing things I hate. If I can forgive anyone for telling me something awful, it’s you.” 

She smiled sadly, then she took a deep breath. “I think Sansa lies to herself.”

“We all do that sometimes.” 

“Yeah, but I think she makes herself believe those lies. She’s better at it than most.” Arya’s face twitched. “I don’t remember much of my time with the Faceless Men, but I do remember a certain feeling of changing your being, your reality, your life. Back when we were in King’s Landing together, after the Trident fight… Sansa used to make me so mad with how she’d blame Mycah and I for the fight. When she was brought before the king, she claimed she didn’t remember. Then later on, she acted like she believed Joffrey’s story. I couldn’t understand why. I assumed it was because she hated me and she wanted Joffrey to love her.” 

She got up and started pacing, hands twitching impatiently. As she continue to speak, she slipped one leather glove off of her hand and began twisting it.

“But… Now that I look back on it… She seemed so sincere about it all. She seemed so excited about being married to Joffrey despite seeing what he was like with her own eyes. She had all that evidence of what was true right in front of her, and yet she seemed so eager to believe the opposite over her own sister. But if she did face the truth, then what? Father still had her betrothed to Joffrey. He was still going to be her husband. And now she’d have to know that she was going to be the property of this absolute shit of a boy. And that Father was letting it happen. But if I were the problem, her life would be so much easier. Her husband to be would still be the prince she dreamed of, and her father wasn’t selling her to a monster. So I think… I think she came to convince herself of it. Sort of the way I would try to convince myself that I was Anais or whoever. Maybe she didn’t tell you about Tyrion because she wanted to believe he never touched her. And so she didn’t remember it.” 

Jon leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and propping up his head, staring down at the surface. It was a chilling thought. “Then how much else is she forgetting?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. Just like I don’t want to know about all of the things that I’ve forgotten. Sometimes it’s a mercy to forget.” For some reason, after she said this, she stiffened and an odd look came to her eyes.

“Arya?”

She blinked and shook herself. “What?”

“Are you alright?” His eyes narrowed and his sister laughed.

“I’m fine!”

He wasn’t so sure. Jon tried to visit his sister at least twice a year, just to check up on her. While she operated well most of the time, every once in a while she’d fall into these periods of melancholy and confusion. Gendry called it “The Black Wolf”. Jon got up and mussed his sister’s hair. Arya smiled sadly again and hugged him.

“Go talk to the twins,” she told him, “They’re upset. They think Naerys did something bad.”

“She did.” Attacking Tyrion could not go unanswered. The rage his daughter displayed chilled him. 

“Yes, but if you tell them that, you have to tell them why she did it.”

“Not being honest with my children helped lead to this situation in the first place.”

Arya flinched. “Yes, well… Being too honest with them now might not have the best results either. I don’t like thinking about what Brandon might do if he were to find out now.” 

_I have to tell them something._

Jon pulled himself out of his chair and went out the door to the private garden. Brandon and Ravella were smashing at each other with long sticks and Aemon was watching with rapt attention.

“Boys!” he called out. Both looked up. Ravella used the opportunity to whack Brandon in the arm, hard. His son turned and glared at his cousin, ready to strike back when Jannell seemed to swoop in from out of nowhere and snatched the sticks from their hands.

“Not now, Prince, your father needs you.”

Ravella stuck out her tongue, and Jannell was soon holding the two apart, reprimanding his daughter and lifting Brandon straight into the air and turning him towards Jon. “Go, I’ll teach Ravella some manners. Again.”

Jon gave his good-brother a grateful look and hurried over to take the boys’ hands. “Let’s go to the sitting circle.”

It was a small dome structure, basically a fence and a roof and a floor with seats in the center of the garden. But it was the site of some good conversations. 

Aemon seemed eager to go, but Brandon was scowling. Jon used the time to get to the sitting circle to formulate exactly what he meant to tell them. By the time they were seated, he had an idea. 

“Are you going to tell us what happened now?” Brandon demanded. Jon thought of Robb and how blunt his brother could be sometimes. The memory made his heart ache.

Jon sighed. “Last night, your sister and brother snuck out to the library. They found out about some bad things that happened to your mother a long time ago. Lord Tyrion was there, and when Naerys found out, she got upset and had a fight with him. Some… Some very bad things happened to your mother when she was young. Some very bad things happened to all of us.”

“You mean like how Aunt Arya can’t remember lots of stuff?” Aemon asked. 

“How the White Walkers came and our Grandfather Stark died?” Brandon interjected.

Jon nodded. Aemon’s example was a bit closer to what he was talking about in terms of the unique, complex nature of the suffering they were discussing. That sort of unintentional insight was common with his youngest. Sansa’s rape was as easy to explain to them as explaining Arya’s problem to anyone.

“Yes. And some of it involved Tyrion and his family.”

“I thought Lord Lannister was Lord Tyrion’s family.”

“He is, but we’re talking about Lord Tywin and Queen Cersei and her son,” Jon said.

“Joffrey the Ill-born,” Aemon added, “He killed our grandfather.”

Jon’s fists tightened. “Yes. And he made your mother watch.” _Then he put Father’s head on a pike and made her look at it. Then he had her beaten and humiliated constantly. Then after she escaped him, things got worse._

How was he supposed to explain to his sons that their mother was raped and abused for years on end? Robb and Naerys knew what rape was. But Brandon and Aemon were only eight. They barely knew anything about bedding.

“But there were other things.” Jon hesitated. “You know how your mother was married before she married me?”

The boys nodded.

“Well when she was married to that man, she was forced to do some things she didn’t like doing. Things that hurt her in a very certain way. It’s hard to explain, but it will be easier when you’re older.”

Both the boys looked disappointed. _You’ll thank me later._ “And because of some of these bad men who did these things to your mother, your mother was brought to trial. She of course won her trial, but all those things that happened to her were very, very bad. Your sister had a lot of trouble handling this fact. So did your brother. But Naerys attacked Lord Tyrion, and so that’s why everyone is upset. Your mother was upset, so and the baby will have to stay in bed for a while.”

“Did Lord Tyrion do something?”

“He… He knew your mother at that time. And they were forced to marry.”

“Mama?!” Brandon said, “With the Imp?! But she’s so pretty and he’s so ugly!”

Jon resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said what he knew his wife would say in that situation. “Brandon, no! That is unkind.”

Aemon, meanwhile, was trembling. “Did he bed her, Father?”

Jon shook his head. “No. Not at all!”

His youngest seemed to calm a bit. “Good.”

Jon sighed. “Look, your sister discovered some things about your mother which upset her. So I’d really like it if you two could stay strong for your mother and sister, alright?”

Aemon nodded at once, but it took Brandon a couple of seconds.

Jon took a deep breath. _Well, that wasn’t so bad._

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Naerys:

The door of her bedchamber opened, and in walked the woman who was once her hero. _I was named for her,_ Naerys thought, looking up at the famous dragon queen.

Her mother had sat in bed and discussed what happened, speaking in a detached voice. Mama looked so very tired. It scared Naerys, but the girl wanted to understand. _She can’t feel anything about it anymore, and why should she have to?_ It was why Naerys left the room when her father had told her to go.    Naerys had resisted the urge to cry and scream at her father, because Papa was comforting her mother. The babe inside Mama’s belly was an ever-present concern, and Naerys knew her mother and the new babe took precedence. She could wait to yell at him.

She wanted to yell at herself, too. She’d attacked Lord Tyrion. _Stupid. Wrong._ Naerys was positive that Daenerys was here to punish her, but Naerys had no interest in being judged by her of all people. Not now. She shouldn’t have attacked Lord Tyrion, but Daenerys had no business telling her the right or wrong reaction for it was. Naerys knew her actions were wrong. Whatever Lord Tyrion was, he didn’t do half as much as most of the other people in Mama’s life. He was just a strange old dwarf. _And I attacked him. He’s not the one who needs to be fed to dragons._ Naerys felt a dull ache in her belly. Guilt. She didn’t need her aunt there to tell her she should feel guilt.

Naerys was seeing so much with new eyes today. And it hurt to look. She wanted to scream at her to go away.

 _Aunt Dany, though…._ No one ever dared raise their voice to the Dragon Queen. But Naerys was starting to think someone should.

She glared. “I used to think you were a great queen. But you’re a terrible one.”

The pain in Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes was clear, and Naerys felt some triumph. More pain was coming, too. Naerys wasn’t stupid. She’d seen that picture. She could never forget it. _Sitting so high and mighty while my mother pled._ “Mama bent the knee to you. She was Warden of the North, and she bent the knee to you, when she could have been a queen. And you let those men march into her home, kill her son, destroy her home, and put her on trial. She was half naked before you. And you didn’t stop it.”

“I feared war breaking out again,” Dany said after a long pause. “The lords of the Vale were all gathering. They were one of the only regions that still had a dangerous army. They wanted justice for Robin Arryn and Harrold Hardyng---“

“---No they didn’t! They wanted to blame Mama! They didn’t care about justice!”

Naerys saw Dany's fist clench. “Regardless, that was what they claimed. So many more could have died…”

“And what would have happened if they had gotten their justice? Do you think the North would have let that go unanswered forever? The North remembers, Aunt Dany.” _I may not be heir to Winterfell, but I am a Stark. I know that much._

Daenerys took a step back, looking shocked. She had obviously not expected the conversation to take this turn.  “At the time… You wouldn’t remember. But the kingdom I came to was chaos. And it seemed at the time that we were finally coming to the end of it. Just… So much devastation, Naerys. So much of it. And every kingdom was ready to go to war with each other again. The Seven Kingdoms seemed so intent on tearing themselves apart even as the White Walkers marched on them. And when the war of the dawn was over, winter was still raging, and there were so many pieces to pick up. If another war broke out, everything would be destroyed. I was so afraid of everything I’d gained falling apart again.” She swallowed.

“But I wasn’t thinking long term. I was so intent on preventing another war I didn’t see the one I was creating.” She looked sad. “I made mistakes, like any ruler does.  I know that. I should have… I should have sent men to intercept the Vale riders when they arrested your mother. I should have made sure she was taken care of. Even if a trial was inevitable, I should have made sure she wasn’t defenseless. Anya Waynwood should never have had to write me a letter. And I should have arrested Coldwater and Moore the second I heard of Eddie’s death. It was my duty to provide true justice and protect my bannermen. I failed to do that. I should have done more to protect the North so that the Vale armies never made it to Winterfell. Your mother suffered for my mistakes. I’m sorry. I am.”

“Have you ever said that to _her?_ ” Naerys demanded. “Did you ever speak to my mother about how you failed her? What have you done to make up for your oversight?” 

_You had dragons. You could have done so much. But you didn’t. How can she love you?_

Because Mama did love Aunt Dany. And Naerys believed Aunt Dany loved her. Seven years ago, Lady Anya Waynwood of Ironoaks died. Sansa had been heartbroken.  Naerys remembered when Mama got the raven about the old woman being sick. Aunt Dany immediately flew Mama to Ironoaks so she could be with Lady Waynwood in her last moments. A service was performed in the Great Sept of Baelor for Lady Waynwood when Mama returned, and Aunt Dany and Papa both held her hands throughout it.  Anya Wanywood had been a good woman, but that hadn’t been done for her alone. Dany had done it for Sansa. _They are like sisters,_ Naerys had thought _._

But now she wondered.  She’d seen her mother fight and argue with her real sister, Aunt Arya, more than she ever saw her mother fight with Dany. Mama loved Aunt Arya, and the feeling was mutual, but  the two of them could come into conflict sometimes, usually about something regarding the North. They worked together well, but every so often… Papa would have to settle things between them.

 _But with Aunt Dany, there’s never a harsh word. At least not any I’ve seen._ And her mother was just as involved in ruling the empire as she was in ruling the North. She spent more time at court. And Naerys knew there were things her mother disagreed with. _She has far more cause to be harsh with Aunt Dany than Aunt Arya. Aunt Arya didn’t drag her to court in a tiny shift to answer for her own rape._ Naerys wondered why. And the answer came to her, a terrible answer. _She’s afraid to._

Mama was by nature gentle and kind. Everyone knew it. In Naerys’s lifetime, her mother had raised her voice to her maybe five times. Even Papa, who was by nature quieter, had yelled at her more than that. Even when Mama was truly angry, she kept her voice soft. Though the words could be gutting in their kind yet stern manner. Her mother could be devastatingly accurate about how wrong a person’s actions were, all the reasons they were wrong, and all the consequences of those actions. Not only did she not shy away from punishment most of the time, by the time she announced it, you felt thoroughly deserving of it. But she was never unfair, never cruel.

The High Septon himself said she had the mercy and kindness of the Mother. She spent plenty of time each week visiting poorhouses and orphanages and giving generously to charity. All the servants loved her, as did the people. And for good reason. When Dorea Sand came of age, Mama found a carpenter that would take Dorea on as an apprentice, and paid the man extra to take a “Dornish bastard girl”.  She helped find Asha Greyjoy’s bastard sons and return them to her. When a drought hit the Crownlands and the Reach, she ordered transport taxes for Northern ice to be temporarily lessened so that no one went thirsty and pawned some of her jewels to make up for the loss to her bannermen.

 She never hesitated to hug and kiss the children who ran to greet her. She even hid little bags of food and coin within her skirts for the pick-pockets to find. Once, while visiting the Great Sept, a common man went into a shaking fit. Mama cleared out the area and called for the septas to help secure him so he didn’t hurt himself, then made sure he was treated and taken care of.

But her mother could be harsh. When she couldn’t be merciful, she wasn’t. She was the Red Wolf and while in the South that was rarely spoken of, in the North it was remembered. She’d soaked her clothes in the blood of her enemies, hung House Frey from their own bridge and destroyed their castle, she had Ramsay Bolton torn apart by the parents of girls he’d hunted. One of the ladies who had betrayed House Stark, her late brother’s former wife, was exiled from court along with her family for her actions. She bludgeoned Petyr Baelish to death with a candlestick and shoved a hot poker into Wallace Coldwater’s eye. She led armies.

More than once, Naerys heard Aunt Arya grumble about how mother “smiled in the faces of people who insulted her.” Naerys normally felt this was something to admire. But now, she wished the Red Wolf would come out. It bothered her that her mother was afraid to hold Daenerys accountable for the abuses she allowed.

 _Dragons._ Naerys was always so excited to be the heir to dragons. She loved Viserion and his siblings. She was so proud of her great aunt, who was queen of them all. How fierce and strong she was. But now… _They make it so my mother isn’t able to be open and honest with Aunt Dany._ It scared her.

At the very least, the queen looked scared herself. She looked up at her reflection in the full length mirror that was across the room from the bed and looked away at once. Slowly, she crossed the room and sat beside Naerys on the bed. “No, I’ve never told your mother I was sorry. I haven’t even… I didn’t start thinking about it until recently. There are so many things I wish I’d done differently, Naerys.  You will understand better when it comes time for you to take the throne.”

“What about my mother?  How could you allow what happened to her to happen? How could you?”

Daenerys sighed, looking like the memories pained her. She seemed sick. “Your father kept protesting on her behalf, but I wasn’t sure if I should listen. I told myself he was biased. I still held a grudge against the Starks for what happened to my family, as stupid as that was. They were saying your mother killed a sick child. If that was true… I couldn’t just let her go free. But I wasn’t thinking. It never occurred to me that they’d killed a child themselves, that they’d already tried to take the matter into their own hands, effectively proving how underhanded they could be. I thought I could compromise by giving a royal trial, that I should hear all of it for myself, that I could appease them that way. I worried my hesitance to let them do what they want was entirely personal, that if I helped your mother, it would be because she was Jon’s cousin and because she’d bent the knee. The woman people were speaking of… She didn’t sound like the sort of woman I could in good conscience let allow to rule over half of Westeros. They were describing a power-hungry, cheating, child-murdering, wanton tyrant who bathed in blood.”

The oddest thing happened at that moment. Daenerys smiled slightly. She snorted. “Then I saw her there that day. And I didn’t see a direwolf. I didn’t see a traitor. I didn’t see someone who would become the next butcher-king of Astapor. I saw a scared, cold, miserable young woman with nerves of steel, a woman with a sad story. A woman who just wanted to go home. Who had just fought a war to do it and find her place in the world. Who was used and abused by those around her, tormented and touched by a caretaker. Who had lost a child and more. Who was just trying to live and preserve the name and memories of her home and family. Someone who had, as a girl, survived the sort of things that usually made grown men crumble and fall. The one everyone was speaking of as this scheming, lust-filled monster. And I knew. None of what they said was true. They’d said the exact same things of me when I was ruling Slaver’s Bay. That I killed babies, bathed in blood, gave myself to anyone who would have me, and slaughtered innocents. I just saw myself, right there. I should have realized how much of it was pathetic falsehood long before. There was no evidence beyond circumstantial things, nothing but hearsay. Hearsay that should have been far too familiar to me to stomach it. I made the same mistake all over again, trying to appease the same people who would resort to anything to assert and maintain their power. Making all the wrong compromises that just hurt the people who were most vulnerable. But even then, I couldn’t admit what I’d done.

“Your father came to me after that first day, after Sansa had told her story and everyone there knew she spoke the truth. He told me to put a stop to it. I didn’t. I gave him the same excuse: that I had to appease the Vale lords to avoid war. It never occurred to either of us that war was inevitable if your mother died. Gods, we were short-sighted, myself especially. The only thing that saved us was the fact that your mother was able to defend herself.”

There were tears rolling down her cheeks by then. “You know, she’s good at that. She’s wonderful at keeping herself alive when everyone has failed her. Gods… How people tend to fail little girls. Important enough to be bought and sold for leverage, for armies, for castles, for kingdoms, for war. Unimportant enough to be deemed expendable. Always the price people are willing to pay. I was the price my brother paid to gain forty thousand Dothraki warriors to conquer the Seven Realms with, did you know that? The key to him taking back the Iron Throne. I was able to buy an army, or so he thought, being as ignorant as he was about Dothraki customs. To Drogo I was a gift, and the army, war, and throne he’d promised my brother was another potential gift. I was enough to make a Horselord cross the poison sea and slaughter thousands. At the same time, I mattered so little that my brother outright said he’d let forty-thousand men and their horses rape me to gain his father’s crown back. And though I was smarter and stronger and kinder than my mad brother, it was him who was the next king. The one fit for the crown and power. And when he was gone, it was my unborn son rather than myself who was the rightful ruler. It wasn’t until I was told I would likely never have children that I thought of myself as the rightful ruler of the Seven Realms. And even when I stepped out of the flames with three dragons, all the while some men were planning on it all being for the sake of crowning some dragonseed fraud. It wasn’t until I had dragons that I had any loyal protectors. And from that day forward there were thousands scheming and plotting to take them from me.”

Naerys bit her lip. She didn’t want to hear this. _This is not the time for you. You get to dominate everything. You hurt my mother._

“They all say you are this this Breaker of Chains and Slayer of Lies and a thousand other things.  But you’re not.” 

Daenerys shook her head.  “No, I’m not. I’m a woman who walked into flames and walked out with grand ambitions, three dragons, and the idea that that would be enough to make me a great leader. I spent too many years listening to my brother prattle on about the glory of dragons, of the Targaryens, of the blood of Old Valyria. I believed him far more than I was willing to admit, for better or for worse. I was only a few years older than you when I freed my first slaves. I knew I was strong, I knew I wasn’t a monster, and I thought I knew what I wanted. I became so wrapped up in my glory, my rights, the minutiae of petty politics, and there were so many people to think about I ended up getting distracted. Thinking of the wrong things. Not seeing the truth. I struggled and refused to admit it to myself. It got to the point where I was convinced that my oversights were mercy and my cruelties were justice.”

She cupped her temple then and groaned.

“And gods…. Immediate issues. I always got caught up in immediate issues, thinking of just solving them instead of keeping how they might affect things in the long term in mind. I thought, ‘I have raised my own khalasaar, birthed dragons, conquered cities, I am the blood of Old Valyria, I am the rightful queen of the Seven Realms. I know what to do. I can be the only person who knows what to do.’ I couldn’t see any grand picture but my own. And by the time your mother was arrested… I was just so exhausted. I had finally settled things in Slaver’s Bay, conquered Westeros, regained control of my dragons, and killed the Night’s King and his army. And when I got to Westeros, I was confronted with just how much I didn’t know about this kingdom I’d always thought of as mine. I wasn’t sure who to trust. And even after everything I’d done, the struggle, the problems never seemed to end. I didn’t know what, or who, to believe.”

Naerys stared at her lap. A few seconds later, she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked at her former hero. Those violet eyes were so sad. “Your mother and I have much in common.  Her situation was similar. Only she was told for a long time that people cared about her, she was led to believe that people were kind and good, and that her family would always protect her. She was more blindsided than I was. And she was misled. When I was sold to Drogo, I at least knew what was happening to me. Your mother… When her father betrothed her to Joffrey, he did it either in ignorance of what the boy was, or he did it in spite of it. And he waited until much, much later to even hint to her what that boy was. Lord Eddard suspected the Lannisters of treason and murder for months, and betrothed her to Joffrey anyways. Even after he’d threatened your Aunt Arya. It continued, and he let your mother believe it would be a love match. Then he pulled the rug out from under her with no explanation and told her he was cancelling the future he’d promised her. And the way he bungled everything…”

 _Stop trying to deflect blame._ But Naerys did feel a dull ache within her. Hadn’t she been thinking the same thing earlier?

Dany cupped he temple and groaned. “He risked so much going to Queen Cersei. Rejecting Renly’s offer. His honor put her in so much danger. Her, her sister, everyone. By the time he put his honor aside for the safety of his girls, it was too little, too late. Did you know… He let your mother leave the city limits unguarded? He sent her out there with no one but another little girl and a Septa who got drunk. She almost had to walk through king’s landing at night without any protection. Prince Joffrey made sure she had a guard. A burned man who threatened her. And he let your Aunt Arya run around the city alone too, despite all the trouble. Then the war hit… our brother wouldn’t trade for her. He sacrificed a quarter of his army for the honor of a girl he barely knew, who wasn’t in immediate danger. All while your mother languished in King’s Landing, being beaten and tormented in punishment for her brother’s victories. She was manipulated and betrothed twice because she was ‘the key to the North’. She was the key to Winterfell and half the realm, but not worth the Kingslayer or another girl’s damaged reputation to her own family. And his response to when she was used was to declare her to be worth less. The only person for a long time who treated her like she had value was the same man who raped her. She didn’t have dragons. She didn’t even have a direwolf. Her father killed her direwolf. Gods, that says a lot, doesn’t it? His daughter’s protector, an animal that would have kept her safe, that brought her happiness, was the thing he was willing to kill. An easy sacrifice for taking down the Lannisters and serving his king. But he couldn’t go straight to Robert with what he knew in order to achieve the same ends. His daughter was worth it. His concept of mercy was not.”

Naerys spoke up then. “How do you know all of this?” 

“Your mother and I have discussed these things before. We have a great deal in common. We’ve been close friends for over a dozen years now. Yet I’ve never apologized to her for failing to protect her. For failing her the way everyone else had. I don’t want to repeat the failures of others.”

Naerys glared. “You did.  You still do.”

She didn’t forgive her aunt. She felt more upset than ever. And it made her wonder something. “Am I going to be blindsided too, like she was? I spent my life believing I was important, that I would be protected and loved. I’m heir to the throne. But I’m a little girl. So was Rhaenyra Targaryen. My brother loves me, but what if someone poisons Robb against me? Or Brandon? Or Aemon? Am I going to be expendable too?”

Daenerys's grip on her shoulder tightened. “I will not let that happen.”

“You’ll be dead by then,” Naerys sneered. “You and Father, maybe Mother. Maybe they’ll kill her, if she tries to protect me. She’ll probably be more expendable than ever by then, since she’ll be too old to have babies. That’s what’s protected her from being expendable to you since then, isn’t it?”

Daenerys’s eyes widened. “No! You don’t---“

“---I don’t want to hear you anymore! I don’t want to hear about what you think, or what you know, or what you’ve seen. It’s always about you! Everyone always has to serve you! Mother has been serving you for years, even though you’ve never done anything to earn it! You just expect it! You’ve hurt her! You let her be abused and mistreated! And she’s given you everything! Her crown, her life, her children, her friendship, her counsel… What have you given her? She deserves better!”

“You’re right.” Daenerys swallowed. “She does. She always has. So do you.”

Naerys got off the bed and went to the window. “Leave me alone.”

The Mother of Dragons got up and slipped out of the room.

Naery turned and planted her face into her pillow. She felt so very, very alone at that moment. _It’s all lies, everything. All of it._

 ~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

Two days of trying to console crying children and handle the court gossip and grow assured that his wife wasn’t on the verge of a violent, stress-induced miscarriage passed before he felt comfortable enough to ask her.

It had been ringing in his ears since he heard it. “I put my filthy hands on her!” “He didn’t rape me! He didn’t. He could have. But he didn’t. He just---“ And the look in her eyes.

Jon almost didn’t ask her. He thought about how much easier it might be for both of them if he never addressed it. He could go on believing that Tyrion would never do such a thing. That he had not actively defended and tried to help a man who hurt his wife. It might be easier for her, if she did not have to think on it.

But he had to know.

It was mid-afternoon, and Sansa had woken from a nap. She’d been on bed rest since the incident, and would likely remain that way for weeks. She still looked pale, bags still forming under her eyes. Jon entered the room with tea and almond cakes and some soothing cream for her back and ankles. “Nani whipped it up for you.”

Sansa smiled softly. “Tell her thank you.”

“I’ll get your legs while you eat,” he offered. Sansa smiled and pulled the covers back, letting her legs out. Jon got to the end of the bed and spread the cream on his hands before applying it to her skin. Sansa bit into a cake, then threw her head back upon first contact with his hands. “Thank you, that feels good.”

After a while, though, she seemed to catch on that something was bothering him. “You want to ask me something. What?”

Jon withdrew his hands and took a deep breath. “Tyrion touched you. On your wedding night.”

Her eyes flickered. Then she gave the oddest, saddest smile he’d ever seen. “I kept trying to find his beauty. It just wasn’t fair, you know? I didn’t want to be unkind. I was terrified. He was too. We didn’t have a bedding, he stopped it. He threatened Joffrey and we went up to the chamber. I was so scared, and I didn’t know what was done. It was so humiliating. He just sort of grabbed me and led me up, waddling. He wanted more wine when we entered, saying he wasn’t drunk, but he wanted to be. I decided I should get drunk too. So I sat on the edge of the bed and drank. I just wanted it all to be over. I mean, I knew that it did not matter. I was bound to him for the rest of my life. Even when it was over, it would happen again. And again. But I just… I had a duty. I swore vows in the Great Sept. I offered to undress. I imagined… He’d been kind to me, once. When Joffrey had me beaten and stripped after Oxcross. He stopped it, took me to the Tower of the Hand, had a maester see to me. He offered me a place to sleep and guards and told me that I would never marry Joffrey. So he was not as bad as the rest. I thought maybe that if I was good and did things right, he’d continue to be kind. That he would not beat me or be too cruel. I spent the whole day trying not to cry, and I thought if it happened quickly, he’d fall asleep and then I could cry. But I wasn’t sure what to do. I asked him if he wanted me to undress, or if he preferred to take my clothes off. I just wanted to be courteous, but he kept getting angrier with everything I said. He asked me how old I was, said talk wouldn’t make me any older, and told me to undress. I don’t know how I got my clothes off, trembling as I was. He looked at me and called me a child and said he wanted me. He asked if that scared me, I said yes.”

Jon’s skin crawled. He thought of Sansa when he last saw her before the wars. She’d started blossoming at that point, but was still very much a child. _It would have been what? A year later?_ He couldn’t imagine the terror she must have felt.

She stared off in the distance for a second. “He started telling me that he was ugly, and when I tried to deny it, he stopped me. But then he said that when the lights were out, it didn’t matter. He could be the Knight of Flowers. Then he spoke of how he was cleverer than most and how it must count, how he was brave, and that he could be kind and good to me. I just… I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t about that. Not really. He was ugly, but Joffrey was handsome. When I… When I thought about men at night, I sometimes thought of Loras, but I thought about other men. I thought about Sandor Clegane, the Hound. And Willas… I didn’t know what Willas looked like. But I knew I wouldn’t care because if I married him I’d leave the capital and be at Highgarden and be safe. Margaery said he was kind and clever and that he raised dogs and horses. I’d have puppies and we’d have sons I could name after Father and Bran and Rickon and I’d be happy. I knew he was a cripple, and I knew I wouldn’t care if he was fat and red-faced like his father. I just cared about going away and being safe and loved. I was promised Willas and Highgarden. But Tyrion was Joffrey’s uncle and he worked for the Lannisters. He was drunk and was surrounded by whores, everyone said he was disgusting. He frightened me. And I was stuck forever with the Lannisters. Listening to them laugh. Listening to them kill my family. Calling my mother and brother traitors for the rest of my life. And it just wasn’t fair. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t know what he wanted. Finally he just told me to get into bed.”

She pulled her legs up and hugged them to her chest. “I tried to cover myself. I was cold. Naked. Scared. But he said no. And he took off his clothes and got into bed with me and I couldn’t bear to look. His hand was at my breast and I was just horrified. I didn’t know what to do. What was expected. If I should part my legs or what. If he would touch me or kiss me. He told me to look at him, and I did. I tried to make myself see his beauty, because Septa Mordane said all men are beautiful. But I couldn’t. He said he’d wait until I wanted him to touch me, ‘on his honor as a Lannister’, as if that was supposed to reassure me. But I asked him what would happen if I never wanted it. He seemed so shocked, so wounded. ‘Never?’ I just nodded. He said something about whores and got off the bed. He looked so angry.”

Sansa closed her eyes. “After that, he insisted we both be fully dressed at night. He usually left the bed before I woke. He never touched me again. It was… It was nothing.” She shook herself slightly and released her legs. “Compared to what it could have been. Compared to what came later.”

“Bollocks,” he said, furious.

“No, Jon. I’d… Earlier that day, in the sept, Joffrey had grabbed at my breasts as well. The whole court saw them after Oxcross. He never hit me.”

“Stop saying that,” he said, angry, “Stop acting like this doesn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t raped, Jon.”

“That’s not good enough!” He just felt so angry. When news came of Sansa’s marriage, it was so buried under the misery of the death of his brothers, the sacking of WInterfell, the loss of Lord Commander Mormont, his injuries, and all the dreamwine that he had barely considered it. It only became relevant later on, when he spoke with Stannis about Winterfell and insisted upon her rights. But even then, he didn’t consider what it meant. He thought it was far from bad news. The Tyrion Lannister he knew would never lay a hand on an innocent girl. _Just like the Tyrion Lannister I knew would never kill his father,_ Jon thought sourly. _All because he named me friend? You know nothing, Jon Snow._

He never should have let his brothers drag him back. He wondered if it ever occurred to him to wonder what happened to her after Tyrion was accused of kingslaying and kinslaying. _What then? Did I even think?_ He’d lost his mind over Arya. But he’d barely spared a thought for Sansa. _No one did. No one bloody did. Not me, not Robb, not Father._

Blue eyes began to well up and Jon forced his anger down. _Care about her now, you stupid sod. Put your anger away and care about her now._ He took a deep breath and spoke more gently. “That… That’s not good enough. Not for you, Sweetling. You should have been protected. You deserved better.” He swallowed heavily. The bits about Willas Tyrell were hard to hear. Jon had had drinks with the man four days prior. Willas ate at their table. He’d helped them celebrate Sansa’s latest pregnancy with a particularly aged bottle of gold from the Arbor. “You deserved Highgarden.”

Highgarden was absolutely beautiful. _I should have brought her back there, not to Casterly Rock._ Sansa loved it there. It was easy to see why. There were so many flowers it was ridiculous. It was on a hill, bright and round and green. It was the sort of place where ladies like Sansa belonged. Jon found it dreadful dull. Too calm, too bright, too chipper. But there was art and fountains and statues everywhere. The godswood had three intertwining weirwoods. There was an immense hedge maze. Everything there was stunning. _She should have spent her maidenhood there, not in a war zone being raped by Petyr Baelish._

“I love you, Jon.” She told him. “You’re what I deserve.”

 _Apparently not._ “Maybe you love me, but you deserve better.”

Sansa reached out and took his hands. “I haven’t felt an unwanted hand on me in over a dozen years. You’ve given me everything I could ever want. You’re my husband, and I am so proud of that.”

“I’m proud of you. You’re incredible. How can you… How can you stand to even look at him after what he did?”

Sansa sighed. “He was kind, in his own way.”

Jon shuddered. “It’s amazing you can even say such a thing.”

“He was doing his duty. I was his wife.”

Jon bristled. “Sansa, no. That was not a duty for either of you. You were dragged to the Sept. You were in the dress when you knew. You were commanded by your captors. You were a child. There are girls who have been wed young, but their husbands waited to consummate even then. Flowered or not, you were too young, and you were unwilling. It should have been his duty to keep you safe and not touch you.”

Her tone became far more tense, and her grip on his hands tightened. “He didn’t---! Well he did, but just that one time. And he did protect me some. Joffrey called for a bedding. Tyrion threatened him. It wasn’t the first time. That time after Oxcross, he offered me guards. I rejected him, because I was meeting Dontos in secret to plot my escape. But he offered. And Joffrey, he--- At the wedding, he kept talking about how I’d be his whore, and how he’d make Tyrion deliver me to him. It never happened. I don’t believe that was just because Joffrey forgot.”

“Petyr Baelish got you out of King’s Landing,” Jon said, fuming. “Just because a man does something decent does not mean he has the right to use you. Gods…”

Suddenly a horrible thought occurred to him. “Sansa… Is that why we---? You didn’t think you were obligated to share my bed, did you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped, pulling away a bit, “I shared your bed because I wanted to. Just because I have been taken against my will does not mean I’m incapable of being willing. I wanted you for a number of reasons, among them were the facts that you’re gentle and strong and cared about me. Also your hair and eyes and the graceful way you moved. And you were one of the first men I’d seen in years who didn’t look at me like I was a piece of meat. Just because someone took me against my will doesn’t mean they took my will altogether.”

“They also don’t get to take your will from you just because you said some vows in a sept. Vows you were forced to recite. Gods… I used to… Sansa, I’ve been kind to Tyrion. I’ve tried to mend your relationship with him. I thought you were overreacting. I thought he was kind. I treated him like a friend. And he _touched you.”_

Sansa bowed her head. “Jon, you didn’t know. That is my fault.”

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to tell me." _Or not wanting to remember._  "I don’t want to make you relive that. But… Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. “I felt guilty. He’s so broken, Jon.”

“That is not your fault.”  _He was broken long before he met you. It had nothing to do with you._

“But I didn’t want to be responsible for making things worse. What would you have done, had you known sooner?”

Jon paused. “I might have hurt him.”

Sansa nodded. “I don’t want Tyrion hurt. I don’t hate him. I don’t… He was selfish and stupid and wrong that night. He didn’t mean to hurt me, though. And he didn’t touch me again. Even though he wanted to. He wanted things from me. He never said a word, never tried to convince me, never acted, but he wanted something. Something I couldn’t give him. I felt sorry for him for a while. Then after the Red Wedding, I just felt so hurt and bewildered and suspicious. I just wanted to be left alone. He left me alone sometimes. I just… Considering it all, he seemed far kinder than most.”

 _No, no. Don’t say that. There should be a much higher standard for kindness._ Jon gritted his teeth as his wife continued.

 “In fact, I forgot it even happened until he appeared again. He wasn’t like that, when we were wed. And I forgot the touching and just tried to remember the good.”

Jon’s breath caught. _Arya was right._

Sansa’s eyes were distant. “I have so many horrible things I have to remember. And you always spoke so warmly of Tyrion. I wanted to believe I was married to the man you spoke of. So it just… Fell from my mind. I never thought on it much, really. I spent so much time after just trying to stay alive, and there were much worse things that fueled my nightmares. But the night he returned, I saw him touch Naerys and I… I remembered. But I still… I still pity him, Jon. And I just wanted to let that lie. Protect my children, keep going on with my life, focus on what my life is now and not what it once was.”

Jon took her hands in his. “There have to be consequences, Sansa.” With this new information, Tyrion’s slights and insults towards her seemed a thousand times worse. It seemed whatever reserve the man had exhibited between their wedding night and Joffrey’s death dissipated. _How dare you?_ Jon thought angrily of the Lannister. _Saying such things to her after what you did? What your family did?_

He didn’t want Tyrion looking at Sansa. Or Naerys. He didn’t want the man anywhere near them. _I thought you had more honor than that._

Jon had encountered men who’d fucked his wife before. Littlefinger had compelled her to sleep with a number of lords in order to “secure their loyalty”. She’d been so warped at the time that she’d done it. The worst part was, some of them were among the Starks’ most loyal bannermen, including a Flint and Lord Blackwood. During a stay at Riverrun, they encountered Lord Tytos Blackwood, who spent the whole evening staring at his lap and drinking. Later that night, Jon came upon the man with Sansa on a balcony, kneeling before her and clutching her hand, tears streaming down his face.

“---Your Grace, I will forever regret my actions that night. I acted without honor, I helped that monster hurt you, and I… I…”

“What is going on?” Jon had interjected, alarmed.

“Nothing!” Sansa had said, looking upset.

“It’s not nothing, Your Grace,” Lord Tytos said. He stayed on his knees and turned to Jon. An impressive feat, given his clear age. He was a thing, frail-looking old man with haunted eyes. “I must beg his forgiveness as well. My Prince—“

“Lord Tytos, please!”

But at once, Jon knew. His jaw hardened. “You were one of them. One of the ones who---“ He couldn’t even say it. “You fought for Robb,” he’d said, amazed, “Till the very end. Even after. How could you? You fought for Robb but you took advantage of his sister? Why couldn’t you just support her? How could you coerce her like that?”

“I always intended to support my queen,” Lord Blackwood insisted, “I did! I swear it! I never expected to see her there that night! But when I did… I was lonely and selfish and she was there. I never should have…”

“Littlefinger tricked me,” Sansa told him, “He sometimes did that. He liked me to think I couldn’t trust anyone. That even Robb’s most loyal men just saw me as a whore. Lord Tytos never even hesitated to welcome me into his hall, or pledge himself to my cause. I went to his bed that night because Petyr told me he’d changed his mind. He didn’t.”

“But I still…” Lord Blackwood clutched his face. “I should have realized. But I didn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to think I was taking advantage of Ned Stark’s young daughter. But I was. I did.” He looked up at Jon again panicked. “Your Grace, please, whatever you do, do not blame her. The dishonor is mine and mine alone. You know what that man did to her. Please, do not think less of her for this. She is a wonderful young woman, any man should be proud to have her. Punish me for this, but do not punish her, please.”

“Why would I punish her?” Jon demanded. “I know who is at fault. Do you think I believed her a maid when I wed her? She never mentioned you specifically, Lord Blackwood, but she has informed me that she was used by vassals. Given your loyalty to Robb even after his death, I had hoped you were not one of them." 

“I was,” Blackwood confessed miserably, “I harmed her, and I have harmed you. I came to Riverrun to offer you both my regrets and confess. You are her husband, and I dishonored your wife. I accept whatever justice you see fit to subject me to.”

Sansa stepped forward. “Jon… Please don’t…”

“I don’t want a scene, Lord Blackwood,” Jon sneered. “It would hurt my wife, and she has been hurt enough on your account. I leave it to her to decide what shall be done with you.”

Sansa ended up retrieving one of her throwing knives and removing one of her scarves: a length of green satin. She had Lord Blackwood give her his hand, and cut a deep X into his palm. Enough to scar. When she finished, she bound the wound with the scarf.

“After it heals, you’ll wear that scarf on your other wrist every day for the rest of your life so you have a constant reminder of what you did. Maybe then you’ll think twice about putting your hands on a young girl again.”

Blackwood nodded, clutching his bleeding hand. In the eight years since, it became known that the Lord of Raventree Hall had an odd garment of green linen he never, ever removed from his right wrist. Some said it belonged to Lady Blackwood, who had died many years before and was adored by her husband. 

Others were less repentant. Jon asked Sansa for more information on the men she’d bedded so that he’d be prepared. When they encountered Rickard Ryswell, the man was disgustingly condescending and smug, leering at Sansa when he thought Jon wasn’t looking. Jon ended up knocking out five of the man’s teeth in the training yard.

Sometimes, he didn’t get that satisfaction. Sometimes, Sansa begged him not to do anything. And he respected that. But being in the presence of someone he knew to have hurt his wife could be nigh unbearable sometimes. He felt he should do something. That he should do everything he could to remind Sansa that she was cared for and protected, that there was someone willing to go out of their way to fight for her, to protect her. That people couldn’t just get away with hurting her anymore.

Knowing that he’d defended and tried to befriend Tyrion almost felt like he had undone all of that effort. _How did she feel, when she saw me rationalizing his behavior, advocating for him, trying to help him?_ He felt dirty. 

 _Something must be done,_ he decided. _Something important. This cannot be allowed to continue._ Jon thought of Naerys. He thought of Arya. He thought of all those women who were expected to just give themselves to whoever called themselves their husbands. He could not live in a world that would raise his daughters to merely accept this sort of thing. He wouldn’t.

Jon went over to his desk and pulled out some parchment.


	10. Men and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Pod talk about the past. Tyrion thinks on it further, goes over his regrets, and plans his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bluecichlid for Beta-ing!
> 
> This was originally going to be part of the last chapter. But it got so long, and I had to split it up. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Chapter 10: Men and Love

Tyrion:

Tyrion spent his days “recovering” with that book in his lap as he sat in bed, all thoughts of dragon eggs gone.  His cheek was bruised, and part of the crevasse where his nose once sat split anew and had to be stitched. The girl could throw a punch. 

He’d asked after Sansa and her family several times, but nobody seemed to know anything.

Finally, Pod came to see him. The Commander of the City Watch looked less at ease in his armor than he normally did, and seemed to have regained his old difficulties meeting Tyrion’s eyes. “The queen is upset:  with everyone, but mostly with herself. Maybe I shouldn’t have… I told her to invite you to court, I told her you could help.” 

“Why in the blazes did you do that?” Tyrion asked, “I’ve never been much help to queens. Though… I wanted to be a help to a princess.”  Tyrion swallowed heavily and looked up at his former squire. _I was just trying to be something other than a monster._ Pod wouldn’t look at him, though. Eyes were fixed firmly to his toes, and Tyrion felt ever more desperate. He put the book aside and leaned forward. 

 “That’s all I wanted to do, Pod. Help a princess. But now another queen wants me dead. Wouldn’t be the first time. I sent Myrcella to Dorne in part to help her. And Cersei wanted my head for that. I expected her anger that time. I was sending her daughter away. But this time… I was just trying to help the girl find a book and make sure she didn’t get hurt in the library. It didn’t seem right for children to be alone like that in the dark. Wolf or no wolf. Now I’m sure the queen wants my blood.”

 _You were alone at night with a young girl. And everyone already thinks you’re a monster._ “Are you here to arrest me?”

That finally got his former squire to look up. He was frowning, but he was meeting Tyrion’s eyes. “No. And I’m not even sure it’s Daenerys you have to worry about the most--- though she is plenty upset.  But that isn’t why I am here.”

 _Fantastic. I couldn’t make it a moon’s turn in the Red Keep without making multiple people desire my death._ “Oh?"

Podrick glanced down again, albeit briefly, and wrung his hands He looked a little green. “My lord… Apparently you said something last night… ‘I put my filthy hands on her’. I _know_ you didn’t consummate your marriage. I testified to that fact in court, even---“

“---I know, I read about it,” Tyrion said, indicating the book in his lap. He suddenly felt ashamed. “You came to her defense quite valiantly. I thank you for that.” 

“I was following a good example,” Pod said, eyes flashing. “Remember?”

Tyrion looked at his lap. _I do remember._ He wished he could feel proud.  _But at the time, I was Acting Hand of the King, surrounded by guards, tribesmen, and skilled sellswords, with power of my own. I could dare to stand up to Joffrey then. And they even needed me alive the night of my wedding, when I refused the bedding. I had Father to intervene. According to this, you were no more than a simple knight at the time, a casual palace guard, barely higher up than a squire._ Protecting Sansa from being stripped by Joffrey and his men had been two of his best moments, to be sure. But it seemed he’d been outdone. 

_Still, what happened to the man who did those things?  What happened to me?_

“I remember.”

“Princess Sansa herself insists you never did it. I always thought you never even touched her, really. You spent so many nights in your study. Even that morning, you were up and dressed and sitting at a table, drinking. And you and Sansa were always fully dressed in the bedchamber when I came in. You would even leave the room when she changed. I thought it very honorable.”

“Thank you,” said Tyrion. It wasn’t easy honor. And it wasn’t as pure as his squire apparently thought.

Pod flinched. “But apparently you said that you did put your hands on her. I… I saw Prince Jon before I came here. Apparently he and Princess Sansa spoke and he seemed furious. It… It can’t be true, can it? You were just addled and confused. You never touched her.”

As he spoke, his words became more strained, more desperate, more wrought with fear. The urge to lie was hard to resist, but Tyrion knew that he could not.

There was a deep, shuddering breath before he spoke, though. “Pod, I am as much the hero they write about now as I was the kingslaying monster they derided during my sister’s queenship. I didn’t rape her, I promise you. But… I almost did. And before I withdrew…yes, I did.  But it was only-- ”

“---I was never raped,” Podrick snapped. Tyrion gaped. Never, ever would he have expected Podrick Payne of all people to interrupt him. But the man had stepped forward, cheeks flushed, eyes watery. “But before I came to you, I was petted.  Touched.  You were one of the first who didn’t…”

Tyrion looked up, alarmed. “You were a child---" 

Podrick’s eyes narrowed. “Was that a consideration for you? Was that what stopped you? Because it didn’t stop them. Ser Cedric didn’t do it but... The worst he ever did was smack me on the arse, but he encouraged his friends to enjoy me to an extent. ‘Just make sure he can still sit a horse when you’re done’. I was eight when I started. Shy. Afraid to say a thing. Who would protect me? My mother had left me, my father was dead, I wasn’t heir to anything. My name got me the occasional meal and lesser punishments for things. But when the night got dark and the ale got flowing, it didn’t stop some of the knights from fiddling with my bits or turning me over to rut against me. I sometimes wondered what might happened if they decided to ignore Cedric’s wishes and bugger me full on. If I couldn’t sit a horse, would I be abandoned? After all, I’d just be slowing him down if I were injured enough. I spent nights terrified that I’d be used and then left by the road because I ached too much to keep up. It happened to other boys, and the other squires used to call me spoiled because I wasn’t raped. I was a crybaby. They’re the ones who had to walk on a buggered arse. I sometimes wondered if I’d be forced to become a brothel boy. I sometimes wondered if I should. If I should just run away and do that, at least I might get paid and eat regularly. When Ser Cedric died, I was sure that I was done for. He at least warned the others away, but what if I was given to someone who didn’t care, or worse, liked doing it himself. Or maybe I’d even be whored out.”

Tyrion gaped. “I knew a lot of squires. I never heard about---“

“Who were the squires you knew?” Pod snapped 

“Well,” Tyrion swallowed, “There was Jaime, he spent time as one---“ 

“---Oh, what I surprise, no one dared fiddle with Tywin Lannister’s heir.”

 _Good point._ “My cousins Martyn and Willem---“

“---More Lannisters, guarded by a powerful father and uncle. What do you think might have happened to them after the Starks took them prisoner? Willem was killed.”

“Martyn’s never said anything.” Then again, Tyrion didn't see much of Martyn around that time. He was eventually returned by the Starks, and sent to Casterly Rock. But the man Tyrion met didn't seem to hide any signs of abuse.  _But then, how would I notice?_

“Well, the Starks probably took better care of him. He was lucky. Of course, he was such a valuable hostage, especially after Willem died.”

Tyrion swallowed heavily. “Harys Swyft—“ 

“---Heir to Cornfield.---“

Tyrion stopped. Now that he thought of it, almost every single squire he knew had been the heir to something, or at least close enough to a wealthy and powerful main family to the point where hurting them would come with serious repercussions. Or if they weren’t very highborn, they were assigned to high up knights and lords with access to wives or whores.   _But Pod was the forgotten son of a youngest son of a youngest son of a branch lord. His father wasn’t even a knight._

Pod, when he came to Tyrion, was on the lowest rungs of nobility, having spent his life and service on the road for a hedge knight, with no real close family, no father, mother, or brothers. So low was his status that his assignment to Tyrion was considered more of a slight than a service. _Gods, no wonder he was so shy._

A sick feeling overtook him. “You were---“

“---Petrified, when I came to you. I heard rumors about you. I was so sure that I’d be used then. The other lads were mocking me, ‘You’re going to get buggered by the Imp!’ And when you asked me to stick out my tongue that one time… I’d been taught a use for it, and it wasn’t talking. But then you just wanted me to speak. You wanted to teach me things, things that didn’t involve saddling a horse or your… bits… You treated me like I was worth something.

“Gods, you even spoiled your whore. But you still treated everyone a hundred times better than most, even though everyone was unkind to you. And no one touched me, either. No one. I could sleep at night without worrying about being buggered. People stopped making comments about how pretty my hair was. I didn’t have to be afraid of taking a bath. I ate regularly and you never once made a comment about me getting too fat.”

Podrick stopped to take a deep breath. This was the longest speech Tyrion ever heard the man give. It was startling. Their eyes met.

“The only things you criticized me for were not talking enough, being too unsure of myself, being too timid. Do you have any idea what it is like to have someone tell you that you have worth like that? That you should speak, that you should consider yourself good or important enough to look people in the eye? Sure, you made lewd japes and drank and got irritable, but I always felt like you were sharing those feelings with me, not attacking me with them. You never made me feel like your problems were my fault, or that I was worthless, or that you didn’t care about me. I’d never, ever, known anyone that seemed to care about me. You were the only person I wasn’t afraid of. The only person in the whole world. You were _better_ than them. Than the whole lot of them. And I thought, with how people treat him, if he can still be so good, than I can too.”

Tyrion was failing in his efforts not to cry. _Crying like a bloody woman. What is wrong with me?_ “Of course I cared about you, Pod. I wouldn’t hurt you. You were a child---“

But then Pod’s eyes flashed and his voice got louder. “---She was my age! You know she was as much a child as I was. You knew it then. You _said_ so.” Pod’s eyes flashed. “I thought you were different.  But I suppose I just didn’t have the proper assets to excite your fancy. It wasn’t that you were good. It was that you were rich enough to never have to consider taking a boy instead.”

“I knew it was wrong,” Tyrion said miserably. For some reason, having Pod angry at him hurt as much as his stitches. “I felt… I was never going to be given anything. And she was something. Something I thought I could do right in the eyes of my father.”

Podrick clenched his fists and looked like he was about to break something. “Your father treated you like dung! Why would you ever want to do something right in his eyes?!”

“Because he was my father. He was Tywin Lannister." Defying Tywin Lannister in some small ways might have proven easy enough. Petty rebellions like talking back, embarrassing his sister, and keeping Shae. But defying him about a marriage of state seemed riskier. Tywin didn't make any threats, though. _He_ _made more threats about Shae and whores though, and I kept her in plain sight._ _Sansa was a reward and soft urging. The worst threat there was Lollys Stokeworth. But he threatened to hang Shae and I kept her._ The most tense "urging" Tywin gave his son came after that night. "Because I wanted to _matter."_  

Podrick came forward and slammed his fist against the bedpost. “You mattered to me! You saved King’s Landing during the Blackwater! There are thousands of people alive today because of you! Thousands! Tens of thousands! I walk this city every day knowing that the only reason I have much to guard is because of you! How in the Seven Hells could _touching a little girl_ matter more than that?!”

 _Ask my father._ “It was made clear to me that the Blackwater would never be acknowledged. I would never be acknowledged,” admitted Tyrion, “All the songs would sing of my father, my sister, my little shit of a nephew… Even bloody Renly, who was dead! But Sansa---“ 

“—Did you think they’d write songs about you raping her? That it would bring you the glory you deserved?!” 

Rape seemed like a strong word. Sure, the girl was horrified and had no choice, but they were wed and she was dutiful. But that sort of rationalizing didn't sit well with Tyrion. _No, whatever the laws may say..._ He swallowed. “---She was the key to the North. Her younger brothers were dead, her elder brother was at war. Marrying her, I could become Lord Protector of Winterfell. My son would be Warden of the North. I’d never have Casterly Rock, but I’d be able to be a High Lord, have a place far away from my family, a place of my own, power of my own, something beyond just ‘Lord Tywin’s cursed dwarf son.’” Tyrion looked at his lap miserably. It sounded ludicrous, even in his head, now that he thought of it. _I’m sure the Northern Lords would have happily accepted you with open arms once Robb Stark was dead. I’m sure it would have never occurred to them to slit your throat and take back their lady the moment you ventured above the Neck. If I had a son, Father might not have even cared as long as a Lannister son was at Winterfell. He might have even been counting on it._

Pod stared at him for several seconds. He fumed. “You know, I went looking for you. After you escaped. I was determined to find you. That’s how I ended up back here, really. I figured I should try to find Sansa, figured she might know where you are. Maid Brienne was looking for Sansa too. She’d sworn an oath to Catelyn Stark to take her daughters home safe. So I followed Brienne. I was lucky she noticed me as quickly as she did, otherwise I’d have been killed or raped or arrested or starved. I knew how dangerous the roads could be. In the midst of a war, with an oncoming winter they’d be even worse. But I was _determined_ to find you. I was your _squire._ I needed you, and I figured you needed me. But Brienne found me, made me her squire, protected me, fed me, took me in. I saw her stare down a monster, a wraith of a woman, a shell of her former mistress known as Lady Stoneheart. This absolute monster. I saw her risk everything. Gods… That woman. She reminded me of you.”

Tyrion almost choked. He knew who Brienne of Tarth was. She was a giantess who served on the Queensguard, an absolute monster of a woman who often accompanied Ser Barristan. She didn’t speak often. Tyrion couldn’t think of anyone he could relate to less. “…Her?”

Pod nodded, eyes on the ground. “People treated her like a freak as well. The second she removed her helm and they saw that she was a woman. They called her names. Brienne the Beast. Brienne the Beauty. And you were Tyrion the Imp. You were too small, she was too big. You could take men down with a turn of phrase. She could do it with a flick of her wrist. Everyone treated her like a monster, but even though she liked to pretend otherwise, she was so bloody kind and good. Gentle, in her own way. You wouldn’t know it, looking at her. But you wouldn’t know it looking at you, either. We eventually made it to the Wall, you know. Sansa Stark made it back to Winterfell herself, and we figured the best way to protect her was do our part to keep the North safe from the White Walkers. Eventually Brienne made it to the Queensguard and she saw that I was knighted and given a post in the Red Keep. Something you might have done. She looked after me, too. Even after. She still does. Even while she’s looking after the queen, Ser Barristan, Prince Jon, Princess Sansa, and all of their children. Even after she looks after royalty, she doesn’t think her time is too important to check up on me. Just like you weren’t too busy being Hand of the King and Master of Coin to make sure I knew my sigils.”

There was a hole in his stomach now. Tyrion gasped. “You were a smart lad, no matter how little you spoke. But you seem to speak a lot now.”

Pod sunk down then, sitting at the edge of the bed and clutching his head. “I’ve always had a lot to say about you. When you command the City Watch and rise up, it’s not hard to find some confidence to speak to the first person who ever made you feel like you mattered. If I’m going to talk to anyone, it should be you. You always wanted me to talk more.”

“You have a lot of things to say. Important things.”

Pod took a deep breath, then he looked up again, eyes less angry now than sad. “He was _using you!_ Even with my eyes on the ground all the time, I could see it. And she was a child. You saw what they were doing to her---“

 _Back to this, then._ It seemed odd to him that Pod would care this much. But it mattered to him all the more for it. He leaned forward and looked into Pod's eyes. “---I intended to be good to her, I promise. I never meant any harm. I was drunk---“

“---You couldn’t even stay sober?!” Podrick said, aghast, “Did you think you’d be gentler towards her if you couldn’t think clearly? I thought you were faking it that night to deal with Joffrey---“

“I was. I got properly drunk when we got to the room.”

His former squire got up again and began pacing, eyes on the ground once more. “Making you clumsier, less controlled, less aware. I got petted by drunk men. They were always crueler, more frightening, more painful in their cups. They were always the ones who pulled my hair and yanked my pants around my ankles. Always the ones who bruised me. If you intended to consummate, you could have at least made sure you had complete control of yourself when you did it!” Pod backed away, eyes wide. “Didn’t you…?”

“I didn’t ask for the marriage!” Tyrion said quickly.

“Sh-she d-didn’t even know about it!” Pod’s voice was growing more choked by the second, as if he didn’t want to believe any of what was being said or heard. “I thought you, of all people, would make her feel safe, like you did with me. That you would be the one she _didn’t_ have to get naked around. You kept speaking of how she was a child even before the marriage, I heard you.

“When you took me on, you tried to make me smarter. You seemed to take an interest in me. You took pity and you didn’t hurt me or take advantage of me the way others did. Couldn’t you do the same for her? I actually felt good about your marriage. I figured she’d be upset at first, like I was, but she’d have some time to get used to it, but that you’d be as kind and good to her as you were to me and she’d be protected and wouldn’t have to worry about being carted off to some stranger to be exploited and abused if she were wed to you. I felt happy for her. I thought she was like me, and that you’d be taking care of us both. But you…”

“It wasn’t…” Tyrion’s mouth went dry. _Please, Pod, understand._ “I… I only touched her a little. She offered to strip thrice. I let her. I told her I’d be good to her, I tried to reassure her. I did. And I touched her. But she kept shaking and tears kept falling down her face and she couldn’t look at me. I had to keep her from covering herself, even. Had to bid her to look at me. And---“

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you keep her from covering herself?” Pod was hugging himself a bit then. Tyrion saw that timid boy again. The one that was sent into his service. But Tyrion had far less confidence explaining things to that boy now than he did then. “It was always so much more degrading when they made me get naked. I couldn’t even get warm when it happened.”

“I was trying to… Trying to convince myself to do it. And… I wanted to see her. I wanted to see what I was doing, too. I know how to make a woman… And I thought if I could maybe get her started, do it well, she might---“

Tyrion felt his voice die away as Pod grabbed a chair from the side of the room, sat down, and began rocking back and forth. _Oh gods._

Pod spoke. “I used to hate myself when that happened. When they got me to stiffen. I was so humiliated. My body was betraying me. I felt like it was my fault then. I kept trying to convince myself it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t like it, that I wasn’t sick. It was horrible. Being made to feel that. Because then it’s not just that you can’t trust them, you can’t trust yourself. It’s amazing, the things that can feel horrifying despite… No… It’s not the same thing. It’s not. I just felt more sick afterwards. More ashamed. And they used it as an excuse, convincing themselves it wasn’t that bad because at least they weren’t _selfish…_ ”

There was no good answer. Tyrion knew it. He probably knew it then. He’d kept lying to himself for weeks. He knew Sansa Stark would never look on his face and see beauty. That she couldn’t desire him. He’d tried to prepare himself for the horror that would be on her face when she looked upon him. _But in the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers._ He said that to her. And he thought maybe that might do something. Even if she recoiled and kept her eyes closed at first… Tyrion had pleased women before despite his appearance. He, unlike most, actually learned from his whores. In his ever-futile quest to be loved, he’d learned. Where and how to touch them. The various things different women liked.

He thought perhaps that in the dark, he might surprise his lady wife. He’d let her close her eyes, then touch her, go slowly, calm her nerves, then warm her up. He’d teach her, make her feel things. Then maybe she’d come to desire it. He’d initiate her, not just to coupling, but to pleasure, and she’d perhaps come on her first time. It was more than most girls got to feel their first time. He could use one of his few gifts to his advantage. Then she’d be willing.

Maybe she’d get caught up enough in pleasure that she’d forget about gallant lordlings and his ugly face and want him. Even if he didn’t earn her love that night, he thought he might earn her lust. He needed to be able to see what he was doing to do that. 

Looking at her body helped increase his resolve. To his shame, he did want her. Sansa had been a remarkably comely creature even then. When Joffrey had her beaten that day, Tyrion was horrified. But later on, when he reflected on it, he couldn’t help but remember how pretty her teats were.

By the time of their wedding, she’d grown even more. Taller, lovelier, more elegant. During her captivity, her wardrobe had been sorely neglected, leaving the girl to walk around the Red Keep in tunics three sizes too small for her. It drew every eye in the Keep. He once overheard some stable boys placing excited bets on when her jerkin would finally burst and she’d spill out, “Ever since she’s been hunting with Lady Margaery, she’s been riding fast and bouncing around. It’ll happen soon!”

It got so bad that the Tyrells actually started making complaints about the lewd japes targeted at their dear Margaery’s companion. “Keep those thoughts about that little child between yourself and your right hand,” the Queen of Thorns was overheard snapping at Ser Meryn Trant, of all people, “Or you’ll be losing it and more!”

Joffrey apparently got in on the betting pool at one point. When word of the wedding was out, numerous toasts were made to the upcoming bedding by members of the court. Joffrey was overheard toasting to this the very morning of the wedding with his guards, “A hundred gold dragons to the first man to get a handful!” 

Then during the wedding, before the whole court, he stopped and squeezed her breast before the eyes of gods and men. Tyrion had thought, when the wedding happened, he’d see the end of the Tyrell’s chivalry, but during the reception, Ser Garlan practically jumped across the room, getting in Joffrey’s way, and begged a dance of the bride. The girls avoided Sansa like she was covered in dung, but the talk was apparently lewd enough to seize the Tyrell son’s pity. 

While Tyrion utterly disdained the whole thing, he was only human. He couldn’t help but notice what everyone spoke of. Sansa didn’t really look twelve most of the time. Despite her neglected wardrobe, she carried herself remarkably well, a true lady, and her resolve was admirable. She was tall, taller and fuller-figured than her replacement. And you could see the horrors she’d witnessed in her blue eyes. That haunted quality simply wasn’t something one associated with childlike innocence. 

Tyrion had to keep reminding himself that she was child. And he thought that maybe getting as good a look as possible at her very un-childlike characteristics might help him make her a woman. So he’d imagined that bosom quivering, those long legs parting, that pouting mouth opening in surprise and pleasure, those eyes doing the same as that haunted look gave way to pleasure, and convinced himself he would be able to take her and it would be alright.

 _She’s flowered and she’s blossomed and she’s already lived through so many horrible things. She’s not a child, really._ He remembered telling himself that the night before in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

The girl kept offering to strip, and he thought maybe it wouldn’t bother her. Maybe in comparison to seeing her father butchered, this was nothing. He asked if she was afraid. But when she said yes, he tried to tell himself that he could reassure her. _She’s prepared to do her duty,_ he told himself, _and I’ll make it more than just a duty. I will._

It was why he ordered her onto the bed. She’d been even more beautiful naked than he’d imagined. And he thought that if he got her down and warmed her up, it could be even better than when he pictured that as well.

But it was all wrong when he looked at her lying there. She was quivering, not in excitement or pleasure, but utter terror. Tears were leaking from her shut eyes. When he told her not to cover herself, she’d hesitated and pulled the covers down in resignation. She let out the slightest trace of a sob. She clearly panicked. And it didn’t matter how much he told her that he was better than the others (he’d suspected, given some of the things she’d said to him earlier, some of the looks she’d given him, that she knew that), that he could be kind, that he’d be kind to her. It didn’t matter.

Tyrion put a hand on her, hoping that maybe he might turn things around. That he might feel her nipple pebble under his hands. But when his hand got there, he found the pink top already hard and felt the gooseflesh. She was cold.

She was a cold, terrified little girl, and he had his hand on her breast.

So he stopped. _She won’t be a little girl forever,_ he told himself. _She’ll never be willing if I do this. I should prove my words, be kind to her first._ So he made the offer, hoping it would be a start to something. Maybe she’d look at him and see more than his stunted limbs.

She did open her eyes. Tyrion saw pity. And she said it. “And if I never want you to?”

It was like he’d been slapped. _Never. Never ever. How could she? She’s a beautiful child. I’m an ugly, lecherous monster._ He made a joke and willed himself out of consciousness. 

Tyrion shuddered again, then looked at Pod. He saw it there. He understood. He saw the fear, the shame, the guilt, the misery. He even saw the pity. _It was as kind and good as what those knights did to him. I’m no better. Now he knows._

Tyrion felt he owed it to Pod to admit it, at the very least. At the very, very least. 

“I was trying to make the impossible happen. I was looking for something in exactly the wrong place. I thought maybe I’d be able to make someone want me. I thought I’d do it. I thought I had a chance. She was beautiful, pure, and good, and I wanted something beautiful, pure, and good.”

Pod flinched. “You wanted something beautiful and pure and good? You should have bought a tapestry. Or a painting. Or an actual thing. You had enough gold to have all the _things_ you could want. But she wasn’t a thing, Tyrion. She wasn’t a key, or a castle, or anything like that. She wasn’t a---“

“---Whore?”

“---You don’t buy whores either, you just pay for them and use them!” Podrick snapped, “And you can’t use them forever because they’re not things either! Things can be bought. But despite what you’ve always believed, people can’t really be bought either. They can be led, they can be paid for, they can be used, they can be bribed, but they can’t really, truly, be bought. Why do you think slaves are branded and chained? They have to be!" 

Tyrion lowered his head. “You can’t truly be this naïve still, Podrick.”

 The Commander of the City Watch snorted. “I was utterly devoted to you. I wandered around Westeros for over a year. At first I did it on my own, a boy of twelve with nothing.  Then there was Brienne.. But even without her, I’d have kept looking. I looked for years until I heard you were dead. You never paid for me. You thanked me for my work, you taught me the various houses and history of Westeros, you looked after me, you asked questions about me and treated me like more than a burden or animal, you kept your hands off of me. And I chose to love you for it. But I was never bought, and I was more loyal to you than _any_ of the people you _ever_ paid for. Because I chose to be.

 “But Sansa… She didn’t. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t have been expected to. Even if you weren’t Joffrey’s uncle, even if she wasn’t forced, even if she wasn’t a child… And you… You… Why didn’t you realize that? Why did you touch her? She couldn’t have been any more vulnerable that night. And you touched her? How could that possibly lead to her loving you or wanting you or whatever you were looking for?”

_I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to feel lonely. I hoped that maybe she would feel the same way. But of course not. I was not the solace she needed. She was not the solace I needed. Not that I ever knew what I needed. I was always so piss poor at knowing how to love or be loved. That’s how Jaime fooled me for so long._

Tyrion remembered the night he escaped from the Black Cells. He remembered the sounds of people approaching, and how sure he was of his impending death. When he saw Jaime, he honestly wondered if his brother had come to kill him. He felt so terrified. But uplifted. When Oberyn Martell promised to be his champion, he felt sincere hope. Who was deadlier than the Red Viper? But the Dornish shit let him down. But then Jaime… Jaime, the one member of his family who ever loved him. And he was _saved._ By his big brother.

Then Jaime told him about Tysha. Right there in the cells. _Even Jaime. Jaime. “Father said you needed a sharp lesson.” And Jaime apparently was willing to give it to me. She was a girl. “All she wanted was gold, which made her no different from a whore.”_ And so every woman after became a whore. But it wasn’t about gold. It _wasn’t._ And Jaime told him right then, when Tyrion had been betrayed by everyone else, condemned to die by his own father and sister for a crime he didn’t commit, humiliated and degraded and put at his lowest point. _So low I didn’t even think about whether or not I’d die, just whether I’d be able to die loudly. And Jaime told me this and then expected me to… what? Forgive him?_

Jaime spoke of it as a debt paid. As if such a debt could be paid. _And just to me, not to Tysha. But it was a debt. He couldn’t just let me believe that he did it because he loved me. He couldn’t let me believe Tysha loved me all those years, and he couldn’t let me believe any member of my family loved me then. It was just a debt. A debt for a betrayal that led to me raping the one person who did love me. And he told me then. And expected the debt to be paid, as if I would feel my life was even worth living after that. And he expected the truth, too._

Tyrion shut his eyes. _“I gave you the truth, you owe me the same. Did you do it?” He thought it was possible. And he felt I owed him after he’d lied so long. He made a raper of me. He lied for years and I owed him the truth, apparently._

He gave him a lie. And he gave him a truth, a horrible one. Almost as horrible as both the lie and the truth Jaime fed him about Tysha. But even after Tyrion told Jaime the truth about Cersei and a lie about Joffrey, for a second it occurred to him to beg Jaime for forgiveness and take it back. After everything he’d learned. He was just so scared of being without his big brother. So lonely. He didn’t want to be betrayed. He wanted to have at least someone left in the world who loved him. Or at least might pretend to.

_Jaime told me then, and I was willing to risk my life to confront my father. Living was worth less than that shit after he told me. He could have told me years earlier, before I raped her. Or even just after, and I might have run away and found her then and not spent years giving myself to drink and whores and Lannisters. Any other time. I could have been spared so much. He told me then, he did it as a debt, and he asked me if I killed my nephew. Why, why did he tell me about his ‘debt’? Why did he have to tell me then? Why couldn’t he just say, ‘I saved you because you’re my brother’, and trust that I was innocent? Why couldn’t he let me believe that I was being saved because someone loved me enough to keep me alive?_

He looked at Pod once more and realized what he must be feeling. _I’ve been shattered for him the way Jaime was shattered for me. I’m his Jaime. No. I want to be better. I will be. I can be._

Tyrion shook. He held himself. He remembered those silver coins. He remembered that stump on Jaime’s right arm. He remembered the black cells. He remembered the cold and stink and despair.

 _Tysha would have been no older than Sansa when my father had his guards rape her. When he had me rape her._ Sansa was as young as Tysha, a bit younger, actually. And she was alone. _The truest, kindest gesture she’d known was a dance._

Tyrion looked at Pod again. “It couldn’t, but I wasn’t really thinking of her until I had to. I’m sorry. But I did… I did care about you, Pod. That hasn’t changed. Please understand that. I’m so sorry I’ve failed you. But you’re not… You don’t matter any less because of this. If it means anything… I can do better. If it restores even a bit of your faith in me, it would be worth it.”

The Commander of the City Watch scowled and clutched his face. “I’ve gotten far for years believing you dead. Other boys idolized Daeron the Young Dragon, Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Florian the Fool… You were my hero. The rest I didn’t know. But I thought I knew you.  I thought you taught what men were worth idolizing. That, along with a hundred other things. But now? You saw one scared, sad child and taught him to look above his knees and see the world around him. You looked at another and groped her flesh as she cried.”

“I didn’t want to be that man. I was afraid, too.”

“You weren’t a child. You weren’t property.”

“I felt like I was.” His own mouth tasted foul as he said this, as if he’d downed a cup full of rotten eggs. “I’ve known what it is to be a scared child, I’ve known what it is to be property. What I knew as I lived under my father’s eye often felt like a polite, less physically painful version of what I knew in Essos. The only difference was, it was easier to fool myself when I had Tywin Lannister’s gold in my pocket along with his claws in my back.”

“I don’t want…” Pod stood up, eyes still on the ground. “I can’t now. Not now.”

He made for the door. Tyrion felt his heart break. Again.

“Pod!”

The Commander paused and looked back. His eyes were now squarely on Tyrion’s, and they were cold.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Tyrion called out, desperately. 

“You didn’t do anything to me. I’m just the one you’re answering to.” He turned again. Tyrion knew he had to speak once more. _He has to know… Somehow…_

“---Is she happy now?” The dwarf sputtered. That had been on his mind. Pod looked back and Tyrion went red. _I used to pride myself on my words._ “I-I mean, obviously not at this moment, given what happened. But… I know she’s powerful and rich and she has her sister and Winterfell back, but is she happy? Does she love Prince Jon? Truly?”

Jon certainly loved her, but that didn’t mean she loved him. Tyrion wasn’t sure, he hadn’t thought on it much. _But I’ve never given enough thought to her feelings, clearly. It would be amazing if she could love anyone at this point. But she should have that._

Podrick stared for several seconds, as if he were wondering why the question was being asked. “Yes, Lord Tyrion, she does. You weren’t around when they reunited but… Yes.” 

Tyrion glanced at the book and remembered the painting of Sansa at trial. _Half naked as the Targaryens stood above her._ “He stood by as she was brought up on charges.”

Podrick frowned. “He had to be held back by Barristan and then ordered away from the courtroom by the queen. He took care of her after her trial started, too. He’s taken care of her since. And she’s taken care of him. But… That’s not the issue now.” Pod’s jaw hardened, but there was something to his expression. And his tone became softer, a bit more concerned. A kind, considerate warning.

“He’s furious. Until last night, he believed you never laid a hand on her. And he does not take well to people who hurt his wife. He’d been tolerating your vulgarity out of sympathy, fond memories, and a belief that you were as pure as the Dragonknight when you married Sansa. But no more.”

A chill went through the Lannister. _I may never get a chance to make it right._ “Am I a dead man, then?”

Podrick shook his head, and to his credit, he seemed happy to do so. “I doubt it. The prince is less impulsive than he was. And he has other things to concern himself with that take priority over you. He has traumatized children, a distressed and pregnant wife, and a gossiping court." 

Tyrion shut his eyes. “Tell me, have I lost you as well, Pod? Tell me now.”

“I… I… I don’t… I don’t know. I… I.. I have to… I have to think about it.”

“Then do that. I have to think a few things through myself.”

It didn’t matter when Pod left, because everywhere Tyrion looked, he saw him. As a boy. As a man. Either way, he saw that hurt, betrayed expression. _How could they lay their hands on him? How could I do that to her?_

He knew what eventually happened to Pod. Tyrion made a mental note to send Brienne of Tarth a bag of gold and bow deeply to her every time he saw her from then on. But even knowing that didn’t stop him from feeling sick at the thought of the people in Podrick’s life who came before. 

And the worst part was, the only thing that could distract him from his former squire was thinking about his former wife. Pod’s story was heartbreaking. Sansa’s was as well, but also filled with a thousand secrets, a thousand little nooks and crannies that seemed to reveal more about Westeros with every re-reading. Pod’s story made him cry. But Sansa’s story made him start thinking like Tyrion Lannister again. Not Yollo, the drunken, filthy, dwarf slave. But Tyrion Lannister, the keenest political mind in the Seven Realms. 

 _Or so I thought,_ he mused to himself in annoyance, thinking of how Petyr Baelish managed to take hold of the Riverlands and the Vale and make Sansa Stark both a queen and his personal whore right under the noses of everyone in King’s Landing. _And I was his puppet like the rest. But how?_

Baelish’s first framing of him led to the War of the Five Kings. The second led to Tyrion’s escape to Essos. _I need to know how I became a slave._

Tyrion spent the next couple of days pouring over the accounts in morbid fascination. He sent Tom to the library to find some more texts that would be related to his former wife and Littlefinger. He wished to understand.

There wasn’t much.

Most text on her spoke mostly of her time as princess, with scant details on her time as “Queen in the North”, when she would have been under Littlefinger’s thumb. And none of it detailed her abuses. There was more on her time as a victim of his own family. 

So much was superficial. “She bent the knee to Daenerys, recognizing her true monarch coming back at last. And when she proved her loyalty and goodness, she was vindicated against the vile slander of the Vale Lords, came to be loved by her cousin Jon for her beauty and nobility, married him, and they had many fine children worthy to be heirs to the Iron Throne and the North.”

Things along those lines.

Occasionally there were mentions of her deeds beyond kneeling, marriage, and child-rearing--- usually from a Northern or Dornish source. Sarella Sand applauded her for rooting out corruption in the Faith, helping the queen choose good and proper councilors, and bringing peace between the Martells and Tyrells. Some Northern writers went into detail about her conquering the Boltons, successes as the Red Wolf, and her efforts to the repair the North with her sister. But very little on Petyr Baelish. Usually a quick aside painting him as a villain whom Sansa vanquished.

The most information he got was from the trial accounts. But they were still plenty graphic. And he knew enough about Littlefinger to fill in some of the blanks. 

 _Look at this. Gods, just how much did Littlefinger do to her?_ She’d been pliant and dutiful and resigned despite all of her fear disgust on their wedding night. Before that, she was trusting. At least a little.

_And twelve._

Baelish had made some lewd comments before. Tyrion recalled when he proposed the Tyrell match for Joffrey. “ _The Stark girl brings Joffrey nothing but her body, sweet as that may be.” And Cersei mentioned something else… He’d asked to marry her shortly after the match was confirmed. Gods above. He’d been plotting to take her for how long?_

Littlefinger had been the one to expose the Tyrell-Stark match. And, of course, he got Sansa out of King’s Landing. While Tyrion knew that Littlefinger’s first gambit, blaming House Lannister for the death of Jon Arryn, couldn’t have much to do with Sansa Stark, Joffrey’s assassination was tied to her in some way. _But when did he make that decision? A plan as expansive as this… And so much ended up involving her._ How far back Littlefinger’s decision to pursue Sansa went was a bit dizzying.

The most painful part of figuring it all out was that it required Tyrion to remember his own actions. At the center of so much was that little girl. It was that little girl who was bringing so much to light. Despite the shame he felt going over it all, he had to know. He had to know how it happened. So he swallowed his pride and made himself reflect. _The girl was of strategic value, yes, but… Who else would have obsessed so much about her?_ Girls of strategic value made people do awful things, but usually the actions were more blunt, less calculated. _But I played a part in this. I was tied into this more than once._

He felt a bit annoyed with himself for the stabs of anger and self-pity that accompanied these thoughts. _You weren’t the only bloody victim. This doesn’t just matter because of what it did to you. It hurt her. You hurt her._

But still, he wondered how exactly that child became the woman who existed now. _Were there indicators then that I couldn’t see? Try and think._ He briefly recalled her charming people at Joffrey’s wedding, but even that wasn’t enough to indicate what she became. To indicate how she managed to topple a man who was perhaps the most diabolical political schemer in the last century. It actually annoyed him. _If she could bring Littlefinger down, then so can you. Just try and think about what happened to her. What she did. What happened. Take some bloody responsibility and think about it._

Even though it made him sick to think about it, their marriage was the best starting point. _It was when I saw the most of her._

He had no doubt Cersei had threatened the child. _She would not have known until that morning. Cersei ordered the gown and made the arrangements. I’m sure she was as sensitive about the whole thing as she was about everything. Joffrey walked her down the aisle, taking the place of the Father he’d killed. He groped her in front of everyone. Her choices were… what? The Tyrells were kind to her, but they wanted her and her claim. And most of them turned away the second we were wed. They weren’t even at the wedding. Her brother wouldn’t trade for her. She’d likely spent a good deal of time imagining she might be free of us, the family that was killing hers and tormenting her. Did she know of the Tyrell match?_

Probably. The leak had to come from somewhere, and there was no way the Tyrells would have been so sloppy as to tell anyone. _Except the intended bride. And Sansa had confided in the wrong person before._ Either way, the Tyrells had clearly taken an interest in her, taking her hawking, putting her by Margaery’s side. _She probably imagined Margaery was her friend and would protect her somehow, at the very least. She probably thought she was free, or would be soon. And then…_

She probably spent the whole day petrified of the bedding. _Meanwhile I was resenting her for not kneeling for the bloody cloak. Why didn’t I bring a bloody stool so she wouldn’t have to? I knew about the wedding for weeks. I could have spared a thought for a stool._

He remembered her sobbing. “ _Please Your Grace, don’t make me marry your---“ She begged not to have to marry me.  And yet she did try to be courteous. She tried to tell me I wasn’t ugly. And she did kneel, eventually. To kiss me. After she heard them laugh. After that I just kept drinking. I wanted to be drunk when the time came._

His stomach sank. He’d threatened Joffrey to spare her the bedding. _Maybe she thought at that moment that she’d be spared it all. That maybe she wouldn’t be raped. Maybe the first two times she offered to strip, her hope grew a little. Then I had her do it, and I touched her. Did she spend all night wondering if I’d wake up and change my mind again?_

When he’d left Jaime there, he feared for a moment that his words would cause his brother to change his mind, to call out for guards and throw him back in the cells. But when he saw his brother rescue him, he thought his big brother was there, his big brother who loved him, and that things would be alright.

Tyrion spent plenty of time wondering about what would happen if he or Sansa changed their minds. Mostly he’d hoped she would change hers and come to him for comfort. _Even after we butchered her mother and brother._ He’d considered her decision to be alone when she cried to be hoarding her tears.

But a few times he wondered what might happen if he changed his and demanded her maidenhead. He figured she’d let him, and not cry more than she needed to. He thought of how dutiful she was with disdain and resentment as he watched happy couples sit hand in hand. He even observed a happy pregnant couple and thought about demanding her maidenhead. He’d considered it angrily. 

 _Gods, what if I had gotten a child on her?_ She was more developed than most girls, but judging by how she looked now, she clearly had much more growing up to do. And childbearing was so horrifying and dangerous. _It killed my mother, a woman grown. What might it have done to her?_ She’d clearly taken to it well, but Prince Jon had spoken of lost children. _She may never have lived to bear any healthy children if I’d fulfilled my father’s wishes._

“ _Thirteen, when the moon turns.”_

They were married over a month. _Did I ever get her a present for her Name Day?_ He didn’t remember her Name Day. No one cared about that. The king was getting married and she had no friends or family.

_I touched her when she was still trying so hard to hope, when she was all alone and scared and needed someone._

The sickest part was, he knew he was one of the better people in her life at the time. That did not console him. _Low standards._

These thoughts distracted him. _Think. Think. She was scared and pliant. How did she go from that to killing Littlefinger? How was that snake shit able to be brought down._

There seemed to be only one answer, really. Even if that scared child had hidden depths of cleverness, Petyr Baelish had outdone the very best, made puppets of the likes of Tywin Lannister and Jon Arryn for decades. He’d outwitted practically everyone. Grown men trained in statecraft. Even the cleverest little girl wouldn’t be shrewder than Tywin Lannister. It couldn’t just be that. There had to be something on his part as well. Something that made him vulnerable in just the right way. 

Tyrion’s mind went to Catelyn Stark. How Baelish had lied to her. His connections to Lysa Arryn and how Catelyn trusted him. _He always had a weakness for her but… When did that end? With her death? He’d betrayed her repeatedly before then._ Sansa’s accounts did a great deal in clearing up his involvement with a number of things.

 _He liked framing me,_ Tyrion remembered. _But he loathed me as much as anyone. But Catelyn Stark… he endangered Lady Catelyn and set her up. He helped ruin her life._

A number of things came to be revealed as he read the trial accounts. Years and years of reading actual lines had taught him to read between them, a talent that dulled since his years in Essos but was being uncovered more as time went by.

There were asides and notes and essays besides the normal record, containing one with more information on Littlefinger than could be found anywhere. Sansa later accounted that the man had Lysa Arryn kill Jon Arryn, and then had the woman send a letter to Catelyn to accuse Cersei and Jaime of it.

 _Gods above, he started the whole damn thing._ Cersei mentioned Jon Arryn started to suspect… _I wonder who put him on the scent in the first place? Littlefinger was riding Lysa’s coattails for years. He had the means to do it._

He’d framed Tyrion for the attempt on Bran Stark’s life, too. _He would have done that over a year before Catleyn died. He was dead set on the Starks going to war with us. Did he intend to somehow protect Cat?_

The Bran Stark thing likely would have come as a surprise opportunity. But it would have involved Catelyn directly, and it set her off on a dangerous course of action. _She did her deeds herself. She traveled and kidnapped me and brought me to the Eyrie herself. She was attacked._ Baelish may not have predicted the Red Wedding, but he did purposely keep the two sisters at odds by courting Lysa, denying the North and, by extension, Catelyn, the security a Vale alliance would give them. _He risked her life so easily despite his obsession, his supposed “love”. Why? Simply because she married Ned Stark?_

No, that wasn’t enough, he decided. Otherwise Baelish would have acted sooner, and he only risked Cat being in the direct line of fire later. _But he would have met Sansa by then. Or at the very least seen her._ Tyrion’s stomach turned. The girl was already at court as Joffrey’s betrothed, she’d have been quite visible. _A younger, more vulnerable, prettier version of the girl he’d loved. And malleable._

Catelyn by then would have been older, tied to another man and family for years. She’d already rejected Baelish, and she had enough experience and personal power by then that she’d be harder to control. _But Sansa was a little maid of eleven, completely unaware of the ways of the world, and sure to find out before long that Joffrey was no Brandon or Ned Stark._

Tyrion knew it would not have gone back as far as his efforts to put the Stark and Lannisters to war. There wasn’t much known about Sansa before then. The court knew she existed. Lord Stark had five trueborn children, three sons, two daughters. Robert sent gifts on their Name Day. And it was known that the eldest daughter would be approaching maidenhood when they set off for Winterfell. Robert had been plotting a match with the Starks for a while.

A brief memory of Robert Baratheon mentioning it to Joffrey sprang to mind, one of the boy contemptuously saying that “She had best be beautiful.” Robert insisted that she would be, “Kin to the Fair Lyanna, she’d have to be.” Tyrion only really remembered it because it was the first time he thought Robert Baratheon ever came up with a decent political idea of his own. He’d been shocked.

At one point after the court arrived at Winterfell, Joffrey was heard asking if he was indeed “going to get the older one. She’s at least decent looking. The younger one looks like a horse.” Tyrion remembered thinking that perhaps Arya Stark would be more appropriate then, since Joffrey was a horse’s arse.

But they didn’t know what Sansa looked like until they got there. She looked a great deal like her mother, something that was never mentioned before. Tyrion doubted that Littlefinger would have known, but he was certain that had to be a major source of Sansa’s appeal after she arrived at court. _How much of his plan did he alter?_ Tyrion wondered, _after he saw Sansa’s red hair and blue eyes?_

Tyrion wondered if his marriage alone had made Littlefinger decide to make him the primary scapegoat in Joffrey’s assassination.

 _No, I’d irked him before with the Myrcella and Harrenhal thing. And I was easy to target. He likely saw me as a threat regardless._ Tywin ordered the match in secret. _But did he suspect she’d be wed to me? Surely he knew my father would try to secure Sansa at once when he knew. What if Father had sent her to Casterly Rock?_

Martyn would have been released after the Golden Tooth by then, and might have been a candidate. _A better one, really. He should have at least sent us to Casterly Rock the second the marriage took place. It’s not like Joffrey stopped making lewd comments about the girl after we were wed. They only increased. At least that way he could try to get Sansa used to the situation. But would Baelish have tried to reach us there as well?_

It was altogether maddening. So much of Littlefinger’s plotting seemed to involve this little girl, and it would have had to have been plans that were altered and changed fairly short term. _And for plots as far-reaching as this… He engulfed all seven realms in war. Deliberately. And he altered these plans as he enacted them just to secure this little girl._

 _A little girl who ended up being his undoing._   He smirked when he read about Baelish’s end.

_Smashing his clever brains in. It couldn’t have been more perfect if she’d gelded him as well._

Tyrion just wished he could have seen it. Or helped her kill him. _How many cells did I end up sitting in because of him? How many times did he try to kill me?_

It wasn’t really about Sansa, he decided. Or Catelyn. Not them really. Baelish, Tyrion decided, was more obsessed with a certain idea which he’d dressed up like a certain woman. _He loved both of them the way I loved Shae,_ Tyrion thought, his stomach sinking. He didn’t like that thought. He didn’t like it at all. So he moved on.

There was so, so much to be gleaned by this book. So, so much. Every time he read it, he picked up more. The man obviously wasn’t averse to having Sansa marry (and bed) other men. Portraits of Harrold Hardyng and Eddard Hardyng Stark Arryn were included and if the images were to be believed, the child was almost certainly Hardyng’s son. 

When Tyrion gazed at the image of the boy there, it hit home for him. He’d known Sansa lost her first child, but it hadn’t really impacted him until now, when he saw the boy’s portrait.

The child had lively blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and dimples, a ridiculously attractive mix of two already attractive parents. _His father’s dimples, and his father’s eyes._ Both Sansa and Hardyng had blue eyes, but while Sansa’s were a deep, haunted blue, Hardyng’s were lively and light.

Sansa had had three trueborn brothers, all with Tully coloring like her. “Eddie” would have been around the same age as Rickon Stark when Tyrion met him. There was a definite resemblance. Tyrion also thought, oddly enough, of Tommen. _A sweet boy, a truly sweet boy._ Myrcella had been Tyrion’s favorite, as she had far more wits than her brothers, but Tyrion also had affection for Tommen, who was a kind child with an affection for cats.

Tyrion had seen too many dead children in his time. He used to see small, naked, broken bodies in the alleys of the Free Cities and Slaver’s Bay.  _Who could hurt an innocent child?_

 _Was Eddie as sweet as Tommen? As clever as Myrcella?_ Thoughts of his niece and nephew made him ache. He hoped Myrcella was well. He hoped she was still clever.

Sansa saw her son die. Tyrion remembered how Cersei screamed and howled as Joffrey died in her arms. _Was there ever a more painful sound?_ Even after all that humiliation, it had horrified Tyrion when he considered that Joffrey was only thirteen. _Eddie Hardyng was only three._

When this occurred to him, he had to call for some wine. Then more. Then sleep a bit. The last bit he regretted, when the dreams came.

When he returned to the book, he focused on Baelish. _What if I had consummated the union? Gotten her with child? What then?_ Moon tea, most likely, unless Baelish intended to make a play for Casterly Rock. His plans did have quite a scope. _The Vale, the Riverlands, and the North. How much more?_ But then Tyrion put the thought aside.

 _He framed us for regicide. If he intended to use a son of mine, he’d have found another scapegoat. And he must have known Cersei would have never let a child of mine live after that._  

But what of Baelish’s line? The man had no brothers or close relatives living. No heirs. But plenty in his sights. _Lord of Harrenhal when he left, and technically Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Primed to be Lord Protector of the Vale. A fortune in whores and wine and wool and who knows what else. All from a tiny keep at the smallest of the Fingers. And no one to inherit._

Tyrion wondered what had happened to all of it.

It became clear the man did intend to marry Sansa himself at some point. He’d killed Harrold Hardyng and he wanted to marry Eddie to Shireen Baratheon. That really disturbed the Lannister. Not because of the morality, but because of how blatantly stupid it was.

 _Dragons had come to Westeros, and Stannis was fighting the war of the Dawn with Daenerys. And he intended to marry that boy to a girl fourteen years his senior?_ As time went on, Baelish’s plans become more nonsensical and insane. _He lost his wits entirely._

And if Tyrion had to guess, at the core of that was his former wife. 

_‘The sort of rape that kept my maidenhead intact.’_

Tyrion shuddered. He’d often frequented Littlefinger’s brothels. He’d enjoyed himself there. The man had the ability to find pretty much anything.

 Tyrion was always fairly traditional in his tastes. He liked youthful, beautiful women, ages sixteen to thirty. He liked their mouths and cunnies and occasionally their back ends. He liked them to make filthy jokes and he liked them to hold him sometimes. He liked having many at a time on occasion.

But he knew of men with very particular interests. Men who liked being beaten, men who liked beating. Men who liked involving animals. Men who liked girls with missing limbs. Men who liked boys or eunuchs. Men who liked corpses. Littlefinger provided it all, ready to sell to anyone willing to pay. _What sort of things did he subject her to?_ She’d been so ridiculously innocent.

Whatever he’d done, he’d done enough to make sure that she felt like he was “all she had.” Tyrion could relate. Being Tywin Lannister’s son seemed to be all he had for so long.

 _He probably was, aside from her boy. How many Northern Houses tied themselves to the Boltons? How many Riverlanders to the Freys? And look at what the Vale Lords did to her._ Tyrion knew what it was to feel alone, surrounded only by enemies. _I’d have tied myself to anyone. I tied myself to Varys, for pity’s sake._

He clenched his teeth. _I should have killed that scheming shit._

How many times had killing Baelish crossed his mind? 

But Tyrion had thought the man too useful. _He was using us the entire time. All to secure this child and everything we had. He put us to war and watched us fight and squabble and think we were using him, and he was using us all the while. I should have killed the little shit the second I learned of his lie to Catelyn Stark. The second I heard about his proposal to marry her daughter. Gods, why didn’t I see it?_

If he’d killed Baelish just after Blackwater, the Tyrells would have been secured. The Vale likely would have remained neutral---- that was never a sure thing, they never got that support, and Lysa Arryn hated them too much to ever risk her precious son anyways.

_A lost cause, I should have seen it. And that the man would propose so many major alliances, request the hand of the heiress to the North, and take Harrenhal. He’d risen far too high and put the crown in debt. Why didn’t we kill him then? He was already taking so much and always asking for more._

How much the man got might remain to be seen. There was so little information on him. _But his influence… He owned nine out of every ten officials in the city. It can’t have all just dried up._ The man had people everywhere else too, his network nearly as vast as Varys’s.

_What happened to them all? What happened to his coin?_

The man had to have left behind more than a terrorized young woman. As impressive as that young woman ultimately proved to be, there had to be more. 

There were people overseas, people in river ports, people in all seven realms. Business there. Investments. The man made coin breed itself. That didn’t just stop altogether. _How much did she hold onto?_

Some of it had to have come into her possession. Arya Stark arrived at court with a sizeable household. Her daughter had a gown trimmed in Myrish lace, and her horses were Dornish stallions bred at Starfall.

Winterfell was rebuilt, and Tyrion knew that the prince and princess lived comfortably. Jon’s incomes likely came from Dragonstone, which was in no way a rich property despite the prestige and location. While his income as heir presumptive to the throne would be a fair amount, the Stark-Targaryens had apparently remade their section of the Red Keep completely. They were a well-dressed family with two maesters, an eastern healer, an Unsullied Master-at-arms, and a septa to educate their children.

They had numerous personal guards for themselves and their children, they traveled extensively, and Tyrion had yet to see any of them in less than the finest lambswool. It was said that Prince Jon regularly had shipments of Winter Roses come in to decorate his wife’s chambers--- not an easy or cheap luxury. 

But the Stark treasury would have surely been destroyed by Robb Stark’s disastrous war. Even getting his army past the neck could have drained the House dry, especially with an oncoming winter. He’d likely borrowed a great deal from the Tullys, and he’d lost his war so catastrophically it had to have lasting effects. 

Then there would have been all the missing labor in the most important of harvest seasons--- the autumn. Likely a lack of labor thanks to the war claiming able bodied young men made the harvests poor when they needed them at their strongest. Not to mention all the lands that had to have been ruined during the wars and Ironborn raids. The North and the Starks in particular would have to have been in incredible debt, especially after rebuilding Winterfell twice.

But it seemed now the income of the North was enough to sustain two Stark branches and provide the Stark-Targaryens with enough income to keep them in royal style. Some of Littlefinger’s money undoubtedly went there. 

 _But the crown?_ The treasury was up to its neck in debt when Tyrion left. And they’d had no way to sustain themselves, especially after the wars. All seven realms required restoration to some degree, and the Iron Bank would have its due. Tyrion wondered vaguely about his promises to the Second Sons.

Incomes from Slaver’s Bay undoubtedly provided a much needed boon in wealth. But the realm itself was often bled dry and sources of revenue had dried up. And after the emancipation of the slaves, the fortunes in Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen had suffered. Surely that wouldn’t have been enough to fill up the royal treasury again. _Is that where Baelish’s gold went?_

Or perhaps he’d just taught her his secrets to making coin breed.

_If he did, she may be the most dangerous person in the Seven Realms. And she’s kept, maintained, and used the power she’s gained. She knows how to use it._

There was no room for him to judge her for that. He’d spent enough time at court, in Westeros to know things were going well, especially given the state of things less than twenty years ago. Riding to King’s Landing from Casterly Rock, he’d noticed that the roads were more even, clear, and safe than he’d ever seen them in his youth. The city was cleaner as well. Someone had apparently come across his own old plans for the sewers of Lannisport and altered them for the city’s use, so the scent of shit was decidedly lower than he remembered it.

While it would be stupid to attribute of all that to Sansa, her own direct influence on other things could not be denied. The people loved her, for one thing. The Targaryens in general were adored, and the Starks. When she rode through the city, she was greeted with the same love and enthusiasm as Margaery Tyrell once was. The crown had a calm, easy relationship with the Faith of the Seven, impressive given the level of debt and the later run-ins with Cersei. The Militant was gone by Daenerys’s word, but the Faith seemed less wounded by this than one would expect. 

It had to help to have the Great Houses in order. The court that existed now was far more used to the Dornish than the one Tyrion remembered. Especially impressive given the two Tyrells on the council.

Supposedly, Lord Allyrion didn’t have much trouble getting along with them or vice-versa. Likewise, Stannis’s old Onion Knight was welcomed. There was clear, nearly complete representation from the Seven Kingdoms spread about the council. The Tyrells, obviously, represented the Reach, but through marriage had ties to the North and the Riverlands. Lord Ryon Allyrion was of Dorne, and was wed to one of Bronze Yohn Royce’s daughters. Ser Davos helped represent the Stormlands. And while Ser Barristan claimed no allegiance to anything but the Kingsguard, he was of that region as well. Jon helped represent the North and the Wildlings as well. Sansa obviously represented those interests, as well as those of the Riverlands and Vale. Even Lady Naathia was officially a Northern vassal, and she often represented overseas areas of the empire as well. Meanwhile, the Master of Whispers, Drystane Waters, was of the Crownlands.

None of them seemed incompetent, either. Drystane Waters kept to himself, said little, even when he did whisper. When Tyrion approached the man, he gave Tyrion a short bow, then hurried away. Barristan, despite his age, was still fairly spry and quite alert, though it was clear his armor was a bit heavier on him than it was in the past. The court systems in Westeros had apparently been streamlined, laws ironed out and drafted. Certain reforms were enacted which were brought on slowly. And while Tyrion did not doubt that the crown was still in debt, it didn’t seem too desperate. That alone was a miracle given the state of things when Cersei was in power. The harbors and boats were still maintained, and the crown had an impressive navy at its disposal, all while attacks by pirates were at a low rate. The borders of the continent by all accounts were well protected.

There were good people running Westeros. Willas Tyrell was quite popular among the court and people alike, and was known to be learned and just. The realm had gotten through the latest winter with far less damage than one would expect. And it seemed that at the very least the country was at peace. Still recovering, but marching along well.

Tyrion doubted that Daenerys Targaryen managed that all on her own, especially given how bad things got in Slaver’s Bay. Westeros was an entirely different kettle of fish, and the Dragon Queen had been gone since she was an infant. But she had a qualified council that was varied enough in origin and expertise while also being interlocked with adjoining interests.

There was no sign of these people being forced to join together, either.

When Aegon the Conqueror ruled, Queen Rhaenys had tried to force unity and interrelations between the various kingdoms by ordering marriages between the great houses. All it caused was resentment. No one liked being forced to consort with outsiders by a foreign conqueror. But this was different. While intermarriage was definitely taking place, it was at a point in time when the country was a bit more accustomed to it, and that wasn’t the sum of what was happening. And this was all clearly being done not by order, but by balancing and serving various attitudes and interests: something that would require an intimate knowledge of the aristocracy, Westeros customs, politics, and charisma. It required someone who would be wary enough to keep a close eye on the court, discern their interests, and anticipate any and all deceptions or ulterior motives, but acclimated enough to the court atmosphere to work with the system. Someone who would have plenty of reasons to want to see the realm succeed, and know the consequences if it fell. 

_I wonder who that could be._

Jon Targaryen was an intelligent man, but a dozen years ago, he’d spent all of his life at Winterfell or the Wall. He would not have come to court prepared. He’d have needed a teacher almost as much as Daenerys would. Tyrion didn’t think it was coincidence that the Mistress of Coin was an aunt by marriage, that the Mistress of Letters was a Northern vassal, or that the Hand of the Queen had made a Northern marriage. Or that the Master of Laws was married to the daughter of a close family friend. 

 _Just enough people tied to her in just enough ways. She’s everyone’s friend, hiding behind a veneer of courtesy, silks, quiet domesticity, and virtue._ But unlike with Cersei or Littlefingr, Tyrion couldn’t resent her for this. Not anymore. She wasn’t hurting anyone beyond the wars of her predecessors had forced her into.

Still, he wondered how much she knew of Littlefinger’s estate. 

The more he thought about the book in his lap, sitting in his bed in his bedchamber, the more his head hurt.

And his heart.

The cruel eyes of Tywin Lannister stared at him from the back of his mind, telling him to watch as the guards took Tysha, handing him a gold coin and telling him a Lannister was worth more. He tried to imagine that day lasting years on end. _And after her family was butchered and during war and winter. Then her child being butchered. Gods above, how did she stand it?_

Tyrion thought of Jon Targaryen, who was once the boy Jon Snow. _And what of you, Boy? What did you suffer?_ People sang songs of the valiant prince who rose from the dead, rode beside the Dragon Queen, and helped slay the Night’s King. But Tyrion had seen enough of war and heard enough songs to know that much went unsung. After a few weeks of observing the prince, he noticed a few things. When the man got tired, he acquired a slight limp in his right leg. He had the scars on his hand, of course, which never made it into the songs.

There was a look in the man’s eyes, one that Tyrion had seen in Sansa’s eyes when she was twelve, one he saw in Queen Daenerys’s eyes, one he saw in Lord Davos’s eyes, one he saw in Podrick’s, one he saw in his own when he managed to make himself look in a mirror. The one that spoke of horrors seen, heard, and felt. One that looked out at everything and having to make that extra effort to see something beyond ugliness.

That look lessened a bit with some at times. He saw Jon and Sansa Targaryen’s eyes grow a little lighter when they were with one another, or with their children. He saw the same thing happen to Pod when the Dragon Queen enter the room. When Lord Seaworth walked his half-crippled, chubby wife around the gardens. When Arya Stark was running after her daughter. When Ser Barristan helped Daenerys onto the Iron Throne.

 _If I had been able to keep Tysha somehow, would my eyes brighten when she was near?_ He imagined a life where he struggled each day, but came home to a warm cabin every night with that dark-haired beauty waiting for him, perhaps singing that Myrish love song as she cooked. _By now that dark hair would be grey and that sweet face would be lined, and her voice would remain as lovely._  

The loneliness seemed to choke him. He wanted to know how grey Tysha’s hair was now. That he didn’t know broke his heart.

There was so much he didn’t seem to know. At one point, as he turned over and cried, the book fell open to Petyr Baelish’s portrait. Those grey-green eyes seemed to taunt him, just as Tywin’s had so long ago. _Baelish knew where whores go._  

He had to figure out where it all went. If he could find all of that, he might find Tysha. He might find himself. He might prove himself more useful, of more worth, more of a hero alive than dead.

 _I’m Tyrion Lannister,_ he decided. _And I’m alive. Tywin Lannister and Petyr Baelish are dead. Jaime’s dead. Cersei’s dead. I’m still here. And I must make that matter._  

He couldn’t kill Cersei and Jaime like he wanted. He couldn’t kill Littlefinger. But he could unwravel the last mysteries of their legacies. _It could do the realm just as much good, and it wouldn’t involve me hurting anyone._

It mattered. It mattered to him. _I have to do something, something good. I have to be able to do something that matters without spilling a drop of blood. Father never managed that. But I can. With my wits alone._

Then maybe he’d find Tysha, worthy of her at last. Or at least honor her memory. _I could be the man she fell in love with. I could be the hero they’ve claimed me to be. I may be stunted and broken, but I’m not gone._


	11. The She-Wolf and the Lost Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has some very intense conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know this has been going a bit slow--- it'll pick up next chapter. But I just loved writing this bit so much. There's Stark sister bonding! Showdowns! Updates on the North, Naerys, Nani, and one of the Sand Snakes! And next chapter, more plot pickup!

Arya:

Sitting on the bed that belonged to her siblings could be odd, when she made the mistake of remembering that they coupled on it. Not that sitting on it was a common occurrence, given how rare her trips to King’s Landing were and how formal Sansa was. The few times she found herself upon it, it was when her sister was out and she and Jon were bored or feeling tired or lazy. Once, while entertaining a very young Naerys and Robb, they took the velvet, satin, and linen bedclothes and she built a little fort for them.

That was fun. Especially given the thrill of taking materials so fine and using them for such a childish, irreverent activity. The royal bed was hung with dark blue velvet lined with white satin, the coverlet was stuffed with down, and the pillows plumped by goose feathers. All things Sansa had ordered--- she insisted on blue over red with the mindset that blue was more calming and conducive to sleep, and believed scarlet or burgundy would make her room “look like a brothel.” She’d lived the first few years of her marriage in the militaristic Maegor chambers that Jon had dwelt in, which she loathed. Those rooms had crimson hangings and black wood, among other things like multiple mounted weapons. When the new royal apartments were constructed, she’d taken the lead in decorating them.

Despite the fact that the rooms weren’t as flowery as what Arya would have expected from her sister, there had been some fun in mussing with the bed. It reminded her of her days as Arya Underfoot, laughingly telling stories and playing games with the household children and her siblings.

Today was not like that. For the first time, it was Sansa she was on the bed with. Her sister, into her sixth month now, was heavy with child and affected physically and emotionally by the altercation between her daughter and Lord Tyrion. Arya did not blame her; everyone was upset. Jon looked like hell, rushing around and trying to keep his children from losing their minds. Jannell and Henrick were helping him manage a bit, bringing the boys and Ravella out on hunts and tours through the city (an advantage of having three fathers for one’s children which Arya was only too happy to share with her siblings at the moment) and Arya was doing all she could to aid her brother and distract her sister. Sansa was still Lady of Winterfell, and the two sisters collaborated extensively on governing the North together, so other matters were plentiful. 

The biggest struggle at the moment was Naerys, who could summon no joy when she was coaxed into joining her siblings and cousin on a hunt, and was under censure for her attack on Tyrion. While a more official--- and necessary--- punishment had yet to be decided on, for now Naerys was not allowed to ride Viserion without her father there, her access to certain parts of the castle were limited, and she was expected to be supervised whenever she left her family’s grounds. Naerys sulked about it, as Arya imagined she would do at that age.

 _I guess I’m getting old though,_ she thought, for she approved. Often, she wished her father had done the same for her when she was young and wandering the Red Keep sulkily. She’d been only nine, three years younger than her niece, and a dead boy and a dead wolf had come about from her altercation at the Trident. And yet she’d not been guarded afterwards when she went exploring the Keep and the city. 

To this day she marveled at this. Her father had fifty some guards, but never gave either of his daughters a sworn shield to watch over them. Even when on the King’s Road, though he ordered Arya not to wander from the camp, he’d done nothing to enforce this. _And look what happened._  

Even Ravella, when outside the walls of Winterfell, had guards on her. Often one of her fathers. If Jannell or Gendry wasn’t available, it was often Henrick, who trained at arms and was good with knives and a bow. He was a short man, but very sturdy and strong as an ox. Ravella was allowed to run around as she wished, within reason, and on the journey down the King’s Road she’d gone exploring as her mother had all those years ago. But she had a man or two with her, always. 

Sansa and Jon had likewise learned from the mistakes of their father. No’Ather, the terrifyingly quick and brilliant Unsullied, followed her like a shadow. The man was rather small-boned like his brethren, but tall as an oak and unlike some of his brethren, he had kept thin and not gone to fat as he approached middle-age. Often accompanying them was Ser Markus Mallister. Robb and the boys had guards of their own, often including Ser Timmure Templeton. Other Unsullied were often among their number.

Those guards were currently doing their part to keep the children safe and well-supervised. Their numbers and efforts had increased since the incident. It definitely helped Sansa be more at peace. She preferred Unsullied guards most of all, hence No’Ather’s appointment as her daughter’s sworn shield over a queen’s guard. More had been provided since.

During her confinement (which was judged by Merys and by Nani’s and Sarella Sand’s letters to be appropriate for this pregnancy), Margaery Tully was taking over more court activities with the help of her good-sister, Lady Wylla Tyrell (a frequent collaborator and a well-chosen one. Wylla was both a Manderly and a Tyrell--- fiercely loyal to the Starks but also with a vested interest in the Reach).

 The queen, meanwhile, was taking on almost all the state duties she usually shared with Jon and Sansa, and looking almost nervous about even approaching their apartments. Arya was pleased for it. She’d never gotten along fabulously with Daenerys Targaryen--- she didn’t hate the dragon queen, but the woman was so obnoxiously dominant all the time. Arya didn’t much care for people who liked to assume authority over everyone. From Maege, Alysanne, and Lyra Mormont or Lord Manderly she sometimes accepted it, but from few others. And there was the awkwardness involved with Ravella. Keeping a distance was easier.

The few times the dragon queen did come by, it was speaking of “seeking forgiveness” from Sansa. Arya knew enough to tell this wasn’t the time. _She doesn’t need any reminders of wrongs done to her, real or otherwise._ She’d talked the queen out of it, adopting a firm but cautious approach. It reminded her very much of a time when the Dragon queen had convinced her to step out after one of her siblings had a crisis. Only this time, the roles were reversed. For the first time, Daenerys seemed willing to accept this. Another blessing. 

In fact, Arya spent a lot of time warding off unwanted visitors. This is included The Imp, who had sought an audience with Jon and Sansa after his nose healed. Arya had firmly blocked him, sending him a stern letter to tell him to fuck off, delivering it to his apartments herself and watching him read it. While it was far from what she’d have liked to do, there was deep satisfaction in seeing his frustrated face. 

He read every word, his color deepening as his eyes scanned the parchment. Then he looked up. “What authority do you have to deny me an audience with the prince or princess? I rather think that is up to the prince, don’t you?”

“The prince is busy, as you may imagine. Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell, Jon is her consort. I am Regent of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I have some authority to act on their behalf.”

“In the North, not here.”

Arya had shifted her weight and cracked her neck. “Should I fetch someone who does have authority here? I’m sure the Dragon Queen would be thrilled to deal with your determination to gain access to the royal apartments.”

Dealing with Tyrion was the last thing either Jon or Sansa needed right now. The situation was fraught with complications. The Imp sighed and relented, and Arya left, happy to have spared her siblings one more worry. If they wanted to see him, they could ask. Not the Lannister.

Now she sat beside her sister in bed. It had been a week, and Sansa was looking a bit better. Healthy enough that Arya felt more comfortable bringing her some documents and going over some matters. Her sister loathed to be left out of state affairs, to be completely ignorant of what was going on. And Arya felt that she had reached a point where bringing certain issues to Sansa’s attention would now alleviate more stress than it would cause. So she was bringing her sister a few pieces of news and issues, mostly documents that needed signing or minor, uncomplicated matters in the North or court. Nothing involving too many figures -- which Sansa struggled with --but s involving people or plans--- areas where Sansa excelled.

A large trencher sat in Arya’s lap, and upon that was a large map of the North, with circles around plots of land not too far from White Harbor. “Lord Manderly says that as long as they eventually start paying taxes and his family is allowed services from the members of the school, he is willing to help build it and give them the land.”

The school was an idea proposed by Lady Sarella Sand, called the Sphinx, and Nani, the Dothraki healer. A place much like the Citadel, but for both men and women who wishd to learn healing arts without having to take a Septa or Maester’s vows. Originally, the plan was to have it built in Dorne, but the planners had found that while they had a good crop of prospective students, very few of them were willing to move to the desert to learn. The concept was already a controversial one already. And although Dorne had been a part of the Seven Realms for years and had grown to further prominence in the last decade or so, long-standing prejudices about Dorne and the Dornish still existed. Not to mention, there were few who really wanted to move to the desert anyways. The school was already going to be led by two “dark-skinned foreign women”, placing it in Dorne would just be too much.

The North seemed the next obvious place, given how most of the population worshipped the Old Gods. That included numerous girls who might wish to be healers and simply couldn’t take Septa’s vows due to their faith. _A Northman can’t be a knight and a Northwoman can’t be a healer,_ Arya thought sourly. But it was hard to find many Northern lords who were open to hosting such a place. While Dorne had nearly no problems hosting a place that fostered and educated women on such a scale, they were alone in this. 

There were only a few Houses open to housing such a place. House Stark would have gladly placed such a structure near Wintertown, and the wildling Houses were interested, but those places were judged too far North, too remote, too cold. One the opposite end were the Reeds, but while they were open to the idea (the crannogmen were sensitive to outsiders), they themselves admitted they were poorly equipped to foster it, given their holdings were, according to Lady Meera herself, “Made up of five parts: four of them swap, one of them half-swamp.” House Mormont, while not swamp-laden, was still poor, and feared the security of such a place on Bear Island. House Naathia’s holdings were small, and almost all of them used up by training areas for the country’s guards.

That left the Manderlys. Like most of the other Houses that supported this place, the Manderlys were sensitive to the needs of people who were different and needed a place of their own. They were the “Northern southerners” after all. Arya adored them all, from fat old Lord Wyman to Lady Wylla, who was now Lady of Highgarden. Perhaps her love for them was a bit selfish. Arya sometimes wondered if there was a single thing she could ask of Lord Wyman that he would deny her, and there were numerous instances over the years where it was Manderly support that solved her problems. On the surface they seemed to many to be jolly, gluttonous, soft lordlings, but they were every bit as dangerous as House Mormont, if not moreso. In fact, some of their ruthlessness was enough to put even Arya on edge, which made her love them all the more.

Once again, the generosity of Wyman Manderly, which was as great as his belly when it came to the Starks, had come through. The only question now was which of the plots within the Manderly domains should they pick?

This was one aspect of the school’s planning that Nani and Sarella had asked the Starks to take care of for them once it was decided that the school should be in the North. The two of them had sent Arya and Sansa a list of things they needed in an area. But neither were nearly as familiar with the North as the Starks were, and figured it was best if they determined it. Arya had already narrowed down the plots offered to them to five based on the specifications of the school’s founders.

The matter was now mostly resolved, this problem minimal and one she might be able to solve herself. But it would be enough to get Sansa’s mind off her troubles without causing her too much of a headache. Sansa took this project seriously, as she absolutely adored both women spearheading the project. To this day she credited Sarella and Tyene Sand with saving her life (along with Arya and Merys) after she was poisoned, and Nani was the one who delivered her children.

After the visit to Casterly Rock, Nani had traveled to Dorne to meet up with Sarella to go over more plans for the school. But she was cutting her visit short and traveling back to King’s Landing now. Jon had sent her a letter about what happened the night of the altercation, and they received a reply two days later, “I’m on my way.”

Since Nani was going to the trouble, Arya felt they at least owed it to her to have a plot of land ready for her when she arrived.

Now, Arya watched her sister nervously as Sansa’s blue eyes scanned the parchment. There were little notes Arya had written down about each place. _Maybe this was too much?_

Finally, her sister sighed. “I just wish we could offer them something a bit farther south. Both are used to warm climates and I’d like to find them the warmest place possible. But the Neck areas are so unsuitable, so damp. And Nani isn’t young. Her joints ache whenever we’d hit the Neck.”

“So… region five?” Arya pointed to the lowest circle. “That might work, there already a holdfast there they could convert. The soil isn’t the best, but---“

“---No soil in the North is the best.” Sansa groaned and rubbed her face. “Northern soil: the bane of my existence.”

“And here I thought I was, I don’t appreciate being displaced.” 

She’d meant it as a joke, but felt awful once she saw her sister’s face fall. Every so often, these little reminders of how they were as children--- their most awful moments--- would pop up and one would end up apologizing to the other for something that happened twenty-some years prior. Sansa, usually. It could be extremely awkward. But the last thing Arya wanted to inspire in her sister right now was a feeling of guilt. 

“No… You’re not…I…” Sansa bit her lip. “You know how much you do for me! Do I not tell you that enough? I’m sorry.”

Arya stifled a groan. Since the night of the altercation between Tyrion and Naerys, Sansa was panicking over things she’d neglected to tell people. But there wasn’t really any worry to be had with Arya, as far as she was concerned. The Warden of the North knew perfectly well that she was appreciated. Appreciated enough to be granted the Warden title, which she came into possession of officially some years ago. _For pity’s sake._

More complicated was what to do with Naerys. She’d attacked an unarmed, disabled subject in a mad rage. While her misery was understandable, the actions were not excusable. Not from a future queen. They had to have consequences. The best bet was to have her spend some time away from court, doing some hard work and dealing with her anger away from the white noise. But they also didn’t want to deprive the girl of the chance to meet her new brother or sister when the babe was born. 

Arya managed to work out a solution. She’d written to Magna Val at the Dreadfort and arranged to have Naerys stay there and squire about a month after the babe was born. By then, there’d be a few things worked out, plenty of family bonding and comfort, but they could insure that Naerys dealt with some consequences. The princess wasn’t thrilled, but she was still processing some things. On some level, at the very least, when Arya spoke to her, she knew that her actions were wrong.

“You need to know what sort of things can happen when you let your anger rule you,” Arya told her, “You need to know what kind of person you could become. So you’re going to the former home of the Boltons and learning a few things." 

She’d be taking Naerys back with her and send her along herself. Val would make sure the girl was safe, but working hard and learning a thing or two.

Sansa wasn’t thrilled with the idea of sending her daughter away, nonetheless, she knew it was necessary. And she seemed a bit more calm with that matter resolved.

For all that their childhood relationship lacked, their bond as adults was far better. It would never be what existed between Arya and Jon, that automatic, affectionate understanding that accompanied everything their every interaction. There were still times between the two sisters where they failed to understand one another completely. But those instances had dwindled over the years. While their relationship did have a very strong professional basis--- they were very much a team--- it was not without love. Perhaps it wasn’t the sort of bond many associated with sisters, but it worked quite well for them.

“Of course you do.” Arya put a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. “Don’t be stupid. We’re not children anymore.”

Sansa nodded. “No, we’re not.”

It was so awkward between them sometimes. And Arya felt that awkwardness now. She very much wanted to grab her sister and squeeze her tight, but the spherical shape of Sansa’s belly made that impossible. So instead, gingerly, Arya put the trencher aside, leaned over to give Sansa an awkward side hug and kissed her cheek.

There was a knock on the door and Arya thanked the gods. Fara, Sansa’s lady’s maid, entered carrying a tray. Arya’s eyes widened when she saw it: the main plate was piled high with peas. And not even good ones. They looked mottled, as if they were overcooked. 

Sansa seemed equally surprised. Her back stiffened a bit as Fara set the tray down on the side table. “Your lunch, Your Grace.”

“Why all the peas?” Arya asked, confused.

“I got the meal from the kitchens,” Fara said, “I thought Her Grace had a craving and sent the order.”

 _Overcooked peas? Really?_ Arya snorted. “You have some odd cravings, Sister.”

Sansa didn’t laugh, though. She gave Arya a queer look. “Have there been any messages from Lord Tyrion?”

Her blood turned to ice. “What?!” 

Fara shook her head. “Not since the other day.” 

“There was a message the other day?” Sansa asked, bewildered. “I never saw it.” 

Fara’s look to Arya was very quick, but not quick enough to keep the princess from catching it. “Did you know anything about this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about." 

“A lie.”

For whatever reason, Arya flinched and pulled back, a common reaction of hers when someone accused her of lying. One she had since her return from Westeros and possibly before, but she couldn’t remember. She really, really didn’t like being accused of lying.

The Warden of the North glanced at her lap, then looked her sister in the eye. “Fine. The Imp sent a message. I sent one back.”

“What possessed you to do such a thing?” Sansa demanded angrily.

“The fact that the last thing anyone in this family needs is to see him,” Arya replied. She held her sister’s eyes and did not back down. She did not regret her action. “He wanted to see you and Jon. A terrible idea. A terrible, terrible one. You were in no fit state to deal with him. You still aren’t.”

“I think that is for me to decide.” 

“Right, because it’s not like your guilt and warped sense of duty would get in the way of you making the right choice. It’s not like even the possibility would make you panic,” Arya said.

“If you’ll excuse me, my ladies.” Fara practically sprinted from the room.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sansa demanded.

“Exactly what I said. When Daenerys extended the invitation to Tyrion to attend court, you could have written to her or gone to her to tell her not to let him stay, but you didn’t. Even though you’re Mistress of the court and Daenerys listens to you. All these years, you could have told us what really happened, instead you called him kind. Sometimes, when you spoke of your marriage, you even made yourself out to be the one who was unkind.” Arya shook her head. “It’s the same thing that made you play nice with the Tyrells despite the fact that they framed you for regicide. It’s why you’re so willing to forget the past all the time. You think it’s your duty to play nice and give people what they want. It’s not. Tyrion has obviously been bothering you since he arrived. Jon has told me about it, Sansa. About your nightly trips to check on the children, that strange outburst at Casterly Rock. Yet you haven’t done anything to remove him from court.”

“I won’t disrupt his life for selfish reasons.”

“ _Selfish reasons?_ ” Arya felt like she was fighting an uphill battle. It was a remarkable way to look at things, she had to admit. “Sansa, what about him disrupting your life?”

“I am used to disruption. And I think I’ve proved I’m good at handling it,” she sniffed, “It isn’t as if I haven’t done well for myself. Tyrion hasn’t done as well. He doesn’t need me making his life harder." 

“It’s not your job to take care of him. You don’t need him making your life harder either. And you know what? Neither does anyone. You’re responsible for far more people than he is.” Arya glanced at her sister’s belly for emphasis. “There are a lot of people who could suffer a great deal if anything happened to you. Whereas if Tyrion Lannister is banished from court, only Tyrion Lannister is going to suffer. And likely not that much. I don’t understand this… You had Jeyne Algood banished from court eagerly enough.”

The second Arya said this, she regretted it. _You took an excellent point and excellent intent and ruined it on a stupid impulse._ Sansa’s eyes clouded over.

“Jeyne Westerling seduced Robb, helped bring about his downfall,” Sansa said in a voice like a poisoned kiss. “She helped destroy our family.”

“Tyrion was a Lannister. And he wasn’t some innocent bystander like Martyn. He served as Acting Hand during Joffrey’s reign, he’s just as likely to have had a hand in destroying our family as Jeyne was. In fact, if Tyrion had his way, the heir to Winterfell would have the name ‘Lannister.’ Who won the Blackwater for the Lannisters, Sansa? If it weren’t for Tyrion, within a moon’s turn, you might have been welcoming Robb and Mother to King’s Landing so that they might bend the knee to Stannis and take you home, planning to pick me up at Harrenhal as you all returned.”

For some reason, she couldn’t stop talking. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. 

“He was doing what he thought was his duty.”

“The Westerlings were Lannister bannermen. You know that. Maybe they thought hurting Robb’s chances was their duty. He did sack their home.”

“Tyrion never directly harmed---“

“He hurt you.”

“He was kind to me, once."

Arya stopped, her stomach sinking. She sort of knew what Sansa meant. She’d been a child in a cruel world. Though she had forgotten her time as a Faceless Man, she had not forgotten her time before. When one was a child in a world that cruel, the small acts of kindness stayed with you. It was why her daughter was called Ravella. Lady Smallwood didn’t keep her safe forever, but she sheltered Arya for a couple of nights, gave her a bath and a dress, fed her, and refused to learn anything that she might betray her with. It didn’t have to be perfect, utter selflessness. It didn’t even have to be perfect sweetness. But if it was something that showed concern and was better than how you’d become accustomed to being treated, it meant so much.

She knew what Sansa was talking about. Her sister told her about the beating she’d gotten after the Battle of Oxcross, of how Tyrion intervened. The man didn’t send her home, but he did try to help. He did stop it before it went too far, got a master for her, and offered her protection.

But there was still a distinct difference between Tyrion Lannister and Ravella Smallwood. “He still touched you. He still married you. He still tried to take Winterfell. And how much kindness has he shown you since?”

Sansa rubbed her cheeks and groaned. “He’s not a well man.”

“Just because someone has some bad things going on in their life does not excuse their actions. That wedding night, you would have been justified in slicing his throat open.”

“I offered to undress. Three times.”

Arya groaned again. “My point exactly. Your thoughts went there, because you thought it was your duty.”

“Oh? Is that it? Or maybe it was because I felt I had no choice. Perhaps you’re right in saying I’d have been justified to slit his throat. But where would that have gotten me? My greatest friend at court was a drunken knight turned fool who betrayed me and was only helping me for gold. If I had attacked him, either I’d have been executed for murder, or held down and had a Lannister child raped into me.”

“Instead of just having a Lannister child raped into you anyways.”

“Yes, but if I’d attacked Tyrion, they likely would have killed me after said child was born. And until it was, I might have looked forward to being locked up in a cell, unable to plan any sort of escape. I was still meeting Dontos after I married Tyrion, Arya. I knew I needed to be able to see him if I wanted to ever escape. If I’d tried to hurt Tyrion, those hopes would be gone. At the time, I’d have done anything to get out. I’m not so stupid and weak as you think I am, Arya.”

There was a part of this that Arya certainly believed, but there was something in Sansa’s eyes that made her feel like that was only half of it. That her own words hit on something true. But she had to stop. _Seven Hells, why must this always happen?_ She didn’t want to make things harder for her sister, she truly didn’t. She didn’t mean to make things harder.

Arya took a deep breath. “I don’t think you’re stupid or weak. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m sorry, I’m doing this all wrong. I just--- I was worried that dealing with him would upset you. I just wanted to protect you. Not because you I don’t think you can protect yourself, but because you shouldn’t always have to. You know that, right?” 

“I don’t see much use in a person who can’t protect herself.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying the opposite. I didn’t say ‘can’t’, I said ‘shouldn’t have to!’ You have a family who loves you, for pity’s sake! I rejected Tyrion’s offer because I love you. Because that’s one more thing you shouldn’t have to deal with right now. It’s the same reason Jon is trying to take care of the children, why Daenerys and Margaery are watching the court, why Nani is traveling back from Dorne a month early… Do you understand?”

She was so, so angry. Sansa never should have known about Tyrion’s message. She glanced over at the plate. Something about those peas alerted Sansa to this. _What has my life come to? I’m suspicious of peas._ Really, she was angry at the Imp. _What kind of self-centered piece of shit…_  

Her sister was looking at her belly. “I just don’t like feeling like I have to be catered to. I don’t like being dependent on others.” 

“No one does.” Arya never liked depending on the Brotherhood, Yoren, or worst of all, the Hound for protection. “But sometimes it happens. You’re in a delicate condition, Sansa. Right now, there is a life that is depending on you. So let us protect you a bit.” 

Sansa said nothing. Arya sighed. 

“Maybe I should have told you. Do you want to meet with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you decide you want to… Would you do it with Jon or I in the room? Please? At least until the babe is born and you’re healthy again. That matters far more than what Tyrion Lannister wants.”

Sansa looked like she was about to speak, but she stopped herself, seemed to think better of it, then actually spoke. “Would you please hand me the trencher and grab me some parchment and a quill?”

Arya did as asked, fetching the materials from Jon’s mahogany writing desk by the window. Her sister set to writing, taking several minutes to do so. When she finished, she waited for the ink to dry and handed it to Arya.

_To Tyrion of House Lannister from Her Grace Sansa of the Houses Hardyng, Stark, and Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Realms of Westeros, Meereen, and Slaver’s Bay, Khalakki of the Great Grass Sea, Lady of Winterfell and Dragonstone, Dowager Lady of the Vale, and Mistress of the Court and Diplomacy; greeting:_

_First of all, allow me to express my apologies for the altercation that took place between you and my daughter and express my hopes that your health will improve. Please know that Naerys shall be disciplined for her actions, and that such a thing shall not be allowed to happen again. You are of course entitled to the very best care and if any complications arise, please show this letter to your attending Maester. It is my wish that  you to be seen by our Grand Maester Merys personally. I shall pray for your health and well-being, and measures shall be taken to better insure your personal safety. I am truly sorry for what happened._

_That being said, I feel I must make something clear._

_My Lord, during this period of hardship for my family and my own delicate health, I fear that I have little time for entertaining. While I appreciate the time and effort you have put into your overtures, I cannot be sure that a meeting between us would be advisable. Therefore I would appreciate it if you would stop sending me messages, whether they be through parchment or foodstuffs. If and when the time is right, I will be happy to extend an invitation to you. Until then, however, I ask that you please abstain from contacting me personally._

_Please feel better._

_Best Wishes,_

_Princess Sansa Stark Targaryen, Lady of Winterfell_

Arya smiled down at her sister’s elegant script. That was likely the closest to ‘fuck off’ that Sansa would ever get. “It’s good,” she told her sister, handing it back.

Sansa smiled and nodded, rolling up the letter. She opened the drawer of her writing desk and pulled out some flint, a candle, and her signet ring bearing the Stark seal. Arya held the letter for her sister as she bound and stamp it shut with the wax. “Would you take it to him for me? Make sure he reads it?”

Arya nodded. She went at once, taking great pleasure in the errand. She found Lannister in the library, mulling over a book on Vale law. When he saw Arya, he flinched. The Warden of the North found herself hoping he’d flinch so hard it would tear his new stitches.

 “What are you doing with that book?!” She demanded. Jon had told her some of what happened at Casterly Rock. _He can’t honestly still be on this absurd quest._  

“Oh, are you using words now? I wasn’t sure you could read,” he snapped. 

“I’m surprised you can,” she replied, “Given how you can’t even tell one mark from another.”

He looked more closely at the seal. “It’s a Stark seal, obviously. Is that supposed to mean something?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “It’s the _standard_ Stark seal, you fool. The one the Head of House Stark uses. Not mine. Mine has two swords crossed behind the wolf. I’d think you’d know that by now, given how clever you claim to be. Just open it and look at the bloody signature.”

He did this, glancing at the bottom of the page first. “I would have thought _Her Grace_ would have a seal featuring the royal House she belongs to.”

“Her banners do, sometimes. But her official documents? No. She was Lady Stark before she was ever a Targaryen Princess.”

“Right, I see.” He began to read. The spark in his eyes went away as he finished and his mouth twisted. “Very well. I understand. She thinks I’m to blame for---“

“---No, she just doesn’t have time for you. It’s exactly as it says. Believe it or not, Imp, my sister is a lord, minister, princess, wife, and mother. It’s possible for her to simply have too much going on in her life to make time for you. It does not have to be about you.”

The Imp had the decency to look somewhat chastened. “I just wanted to apologize for everything and offer her something. I have an idea that I believe may help her and quite possibly the whole realm.”

“Tell it to someone else. Someone who isn’t bedridden with a babe in their belly.” Arya rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. As she began walking away, Tyrion called out after her.

“How is the Northern treasury doing?”

Arya actually laughed and kept walking. Though as she did, she cried out, “Splendidly, all things considered. Believe it or not, we’ve managed to do well enough on our own without your help.”

“It might do even better with it!”

Arya kept walking, holding back a snort. Her sister had no head for figures, but Arya did. Sansa had a head for something else, which was helpful. She knew how to predict the needs of the people. She also had training from Littlefinger on how to amplify funds. The training she’d passed on to Arya, though her instincts about demand were less easily copied. However, Arya, with her natural talent for figures and her growing knowledge of her homeland, had found little tweaks to make to Littlefinger’s original model, better suited for her lands and done better than ever thought possible.

So together, the Stark sisters made for a fine team. Indeed, the North was richer and better cared for than it had been for a long time. In a few years, it would surpass any time of prosperity in history of the North. The absolute destruction wrought by the wars and the winter of their youth held them back, but if not for that cataclysmic damage, they’d be near swimming in coin. Arya projected that in another seven or eight years’ time, provided they not be hit with a winter surpassing four years, the Starks would be at the height of their income. There were only a few obstacles in their way: finding funds for a particular new road plan that the Manderlys had proposed and finding enough coin to build up Deepwood Motte. But Arya felt fairly confidant she’d find the money. Eventually, the school’s incomes would help. Once those projects were well provided for, though, the money would flow in. They’d have another major harbor, they would have yet another city around the school, and they’d have the proper means of transport to facilitate trade more easily.

 _I don’t need the Imp’s help for that._ Everyone she’d spoken to and everything she read called him clever. But while his triumphs as Acting Hand ---The Blackwater, for instance--- were legend, little was written of his triumphs as Master of Coin. Nothing beyond a tax on whores---- dwarf’s pennies, they were called. And even that was said to have been Lord Tywin’s idea.

But the damn dwarf kept calling out. “It’s true! I could help you uncover incomes still due your sister!”

“My sister has incomes! I’ve made sure they’re generous!”

“Littlefinger still owes her a debt!” 

That made Arya stop short. She spun around once more, livid. Within seconds, the Imp found his collar in her fist.

“You’re going to wrinkle my shirt,” he told her, mismatched eyes fixed on hers.

“Don’t you bloody mention that name,” Arya murmured, “Haven’t you done enough to summon his ghost?”

His eyes lowered. “It’s not his ghost I’m interested in, it’s his coin. _That’s_ why I’m looking at this book on Vale law, to see where his estate would normally go. The man had a prodigious fortune. The brothels, the investments, the Gulltown merchants, Harrenhal, the Vale incomes. When I was Hand, he owned ninety percent of the officials in King’s Landing. That all doesn’t disappear overnight. When he was Master of Coin, the crown’s incomes were greater than they’d ever been--- and he was hiding most of it away to the point where we were in unthinkable debt. Where do you think all that money went, Arya Stark?” 

“Any gold of the crown’s that he may have stolen is the crown’s affair, not mine.”

The man gave his version of a snort. _More like a wheeze._

“Let us not pretend the two are mutually exclusive, shall we? It is a Targaryen Prince who is heir to Winterfell. The current lady is wife to the next ruler of Westeros and mother to the one that comes after that. You’re not House Stark anymore, you’re House Targaryen-Stark.”

Arya shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re wrong about that. My sister has taken very good measures to make sure that isn’t the case. Robb holds the name Targaryen, aye, but it will be an afterthought, his line will go by House Stark. The incomes, property, are all kept separate.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened with surprise. “Oh? Has the world changed so much? A wife and everything she owns is an extension of her husband—his property.” 

Arya’s lip curled. “Would you like to see the contracts? Their marriage is a very special affair, the terms arranged before I was rediscovered. A separate branch, a separate bloodline is maintained for us. Why do you think I stand as Warden of the North and not Jon? The crown has no claim on us.” 

Tyrion pursed his lips. “Interesting. Yet, Baelish still had a fortune, much of it money he didn’t even steal. He was an enterprising, wealthy man who did great damage to your family. You’re owed more than what you’ve been given for what you suffered. And independent as you may think you are from the crown, any and every House can always use more money. Winterfell may be strong again, and it may prosper now, but it is no Casterly Rock.” 

 _No, and those walls are sadly hard to breach._ Like every area of the realm, the North had prospered during the long summer of Robert Baratheon’s reign. That hardly stopped the coffers from being almost immediately bled dry by the wars and the sacking of Winterfell. While Arya and Sansa’s governance was more productive than that of their father’s, one could never be too safe. She considered just how much devastation the Lannister were able to create so quickly, she thought of how Robb only was able to muster a fraction of the men he should have thanks to how hard the North could be to travel, she thought of the barren harvests that occurred after he wars began, and how poorly defended the North proved to be. She thought of her roads and Deepwood Motte. Even with how well things were going, they still didn’t have quite enough. And they’d been building from nothing for years

She released the Imp and backed away, chewing her lower lip. He smiled. She scowled. “What could you even find? The queen’s own people couldn’t recover much.”

“The queen’s own people were preoccupied with the utter calamity my sister left behind, as well as the rest of her bloody empire. Things slip through the cracks. But in this time of peace and plenty, there is no reason we can’t retrieve what we need to fill those cracks and keep things from slipping by next time trouble hits. Your sister in particular is owed much. The Starks are owed much. But I doubt anyone suffered more at Petyr Baelish’s hands than Sansa Stark. Even the things my family did to her came as a result of his actions.” 

“Oh? Did Petyr Baelish make you grab her tits as she cried?” Arya spat. Lannister looked at the ground, shutting his eyes.

“No,” he replied before clearing his throat, “But the opportunity I had to do that and more came about because he revealed the Highgarden plot to marry her to Willas Tyrell. I will not pretend that I acted with honor--- I did not. I regret putting my hands on her. I wouldn’t be the first husband to wait until his wife was old enough to consummate--- far from it. But I didn’t consider that. I was thinking of myself. I do that often--- too often. A Lannister trait. But now I wish to think of others. I owe debts, and we Lannisters pay those.” 

Arya gripped her hilt, unsure what to do. “House Lannister has paid reparations.” She’d made good use of them, too. Wintertown was now bustling and productive, rebuilt by Lannister gold. The Wolfswood brought in a steady lumber supply yearly, and the silver mines around White Harbor were well-equipped. 

“A drop in the bucket, most likely, but whatever House Lannister may have paid you, I have not. The actions against your family were not made by Martyn. They were made by my father, siblings, and nephew. And I helped them. I may not have had anything to do with the Red Wedding, I may have stopped one of your sister’s beatings, but I also did everything I could to keep my family strong and protected enough to keep striking against you. You know I put forward a plot to get Jaime back? Which could have gotten your sister killed, had I succeeded. The only purpose Joffrey saw in keeping her alive was keeping Jaime from being killed by your family, after all. I only ever protected her in the interests of keeping him safe. I stopped one beating among many and ordered her protected from a mob once, and even then it was the Hound acting alone who protected her. Then I went along with my father’s plot to take Winterfell. I protected Lannister interests, and those interests included slaughtering your family and taking advantage of your misfortunes.”

Arya snorted. “You’ll be paying many debts, Lannister. The Starks were far from the only people hurt by what your family did. Do you intend to make amends to House Tully as well? House Umber? My husband’s cousin Smalljon, the heir to Last Hearth, died at the Red Wedding. The heir to Bear Island, Dacey Mormont, perished as well. Do you owe House Mormont a debt?”

“Well, her cousin Jorah took me prisoner once, so perhaps not her. But if you cooperate, I could pay debts to the whole North. Perhaps the Riverlands as well.” Lannister seemed exasperated. “This is why I wished to speak to your sister. She’s at least more reasonable.” 

“Aye, she is. It’s her greatest strength and greatest folly.” 

“In this case, it would be a strength.” 

“In being reasonable and forgiving with a Lannister? She’s done that before and it never did much for her. She once forgave your nephew and sister the death of her direwolf.” 

Tyrion hung his head. “I can not answer for all of their crimes. But I might try to help pay for some.”

“Why do you want to?” Arya demanded, eyes narrowing, “No one has made any demands of you, or of the Lannisters. What do you want? Favor with the crown? Is that it?” 

“I actually have another route to that, though admittedly more favor couldn’t hurt me. But given your niece’s reaction to the recent discovery I am not sure how far that shall go.” Lannister cleared his throat. “Perhaps I would like to do more with my life than drink, whore, and serve those who have nothing but hatred for me.”

“How do you know I have anything but hatred for you?”

A flicker came to Lannister’s green eye. “I don’t just seek to help you.”

“Good. But in the meantime, we’re all a bit busy at the moment. My sister doesn’t have time for you, neither do I.”

“At least tell her what I said. About helping.”

Arya said nothing and turned around again. She felt a lump form in her throat. If the Imp could indeed help, Sansa would want to know. Small satisfaction could be gained from denying him a straight answer, but she already knew it, much to her dismay. 


	12. Jon and Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes a lot of meetings and confronts everyone to varying degrees. Tyrion lays out some plans and stirs shit. Because he's Tyrion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am SO sorry about the wait! I've had TONS of stuff going on. Also, this chapter got re-written twice. I'm now situated at Grad school for a while. But I've been planning a move for the last month and a half, so I've been SUPER busy!
> 
> Thanks to bbanzaiz for her beta-work!

Chapter Twelve: Jon and Issues 

Jon:

Jon looked longingly out his study window. From far off, he could hear the clashing of practice blades. _Robb will be practicing,_ he thought with a sinking stomach. Since that night in the library, his normally bookish son had taken to the practice yard possessed with a certain mania. Those old enough to have lived during the time of King Aerys whispered of it being not unlike Prince Rhaegar’s sudden devotion to the arts of combat during his youth. Jon knew better. Rhaegar had taken to the sword as a result of a prophecy, looking to the future. Robb was devoting himself to these things because of the past.

Margaery Tyrell Tully’s voice interrupted his train of thought.

“The young ladies of your daughter’s retinue are still an issue, Your Grace. Has a decision been made as to what to do about them once she has left for the Dreadfort?”

Jon sighed. Since Sansa had taken to bed, he had become acting Master of the Court. The combination of his usual royal duties and trying to keep his family afloat during this difficult period meant that he simply couldn’t do all of it on his own, so he’d taken Lady Tully on as a partner.

This had upsides and downsides. Margaery, as ever, was efficient, hard-working, intelligent, and she knew what she was doing. But on the other, Jon had never grown as comfortable with her as he had with her brothers or other members of the council.

Part of the problem was not Margaery’s fault at all, not really. The fact of the matter was that the whispers about her three prior marriages, the allegations of adultery, and her reputation for ambition had followed her. So when the famously tempting, power-hungry Rose of Highgarden began taking special, private meetings with the prince who had both a bedridden wife and a reputation for liking the company of powerful women… it led to talk. Which was why Jon mostly met with her in more public, traditional meeting rooms. However, today the nature of their discussion was such that Jon felt more comfortable in his study. For appearance’s sake, Ser Markus Mallister of the Kingsguard and one of Margaery’s maids was in the room with them: Markus by the door, the maid sitting in the corner.

Margaery Tyrell was one of the people who understood, without a doubt, that nothing would ever, ever happen between them. Neither them desired or would allow such a thing. But the truth of these matters rarely counted, so both of them had to have escorts. Just as Margaery made sure to have escorts when she met with Lord Seaworth, Allyrion, or Waters or any other man on the council. It was this sort of careful understanding, along with her background, that made Jon choose her to help him with the court.

Jon sighed. “The Northern girls among Naerys’ ladies will accompany her to the Dreadfort. My niece Ravella will then return to Winterfell while Catelyn Mormont will remain with her there.”

It amazed Jon sometimes how much of his job tended to revolve around the affairs of children.  Normally, he tended to concern himself with things concerning military and law-keeping--- border patrol, the Unsullied, the queen’s justice--- as well as many public works such as rebuilding holdfasts and roads. But one of the side-effects of the War of the Five Kings was the dying out of many of the members of the older generation, not to mention numerous young adults, including countless heirs. This had led to Houses either being reduced to widows and the youngest of their children, many young men or women suddenly inheriting their family seats before they wed, or may older lords left without heirs and taking new young women to wed and having to start the next generation of their House over from scratch. As a result, there was a frightening number of lords and ladies in the realm who had their own seat and titles before the age of twelve.

Many of these children had their mothers or uncles as regents, many of them ambitious southerners trained to devote their lives to the self-interests of their House. So, often to get various powerful families to cooperate with the crown, it meant seeing to the needs of various young lords, ladies, and heirs.

So even Jon had to look into the care of young lord-this-or-that often enough when he needed a holdfast or stretch of land released for use by the royal justice or army.

One of the favors often exchanged was a place at court. And in fact, it led to Jon’s two eldest children having little miniature courts of their own, sets of companions from among the child lords and ladies of the realm. A lot of favors could be gained by promising to put someone’s young son or daughter alongside the future queen or the Lord of Winterfell. Among Naerys’s companions were the thirteen-year-old Lady of Bronzegate and Seranna Mooton, who was likely to be Lady of Maidenpool by her thirteenth birthday thanks to her grandfather’s ailing health.

Thus the matter of where Naerys’ ladies would go once she was at the Dreadfort was a matter of importance. Part of the point of sending her there was to give Naerys some time to live among people who wouldn’t care much about her being a princess. After how she’d attacked Tyrion, that was precisely what she needed. She was scheduled to leave a moon’s turn after the new babe was born. And before then, something had to be done about her little court.

Jon cleared his throat. “As for the other girls, they will be officially absorbed into my wife’s court, and will be overseen on a daily basis by an older maiden of our choosing.”

Margaery’s eyes flashed. “My step-daughter Minisa Tully would be ideal.”

That was the other problem with working with Margaery, this one very much her fault. It never stopped with her. Minisa was not a terrible candidate, though she was a bit old, but Jon could tell what was happening here. Likely, Minisa would use her position to make sure her half-sister, Lisel, got plenty of time with Robb.

Jon couldn’t pick Minisa, though. There was already so much Tyrell influence at court, and it was getting to be a bit too much. Jon was currently torn between Harmen Uller’s granddaughter Rhaella and the thirteen-year-old Lady Buckler.

“I will think on it,” Jon told Margaery, “Though I would think that Minisa might be occupied by other things at this point. She is seventeen, and is likely better suited for more adult company, surely.”

Lady Tully flinched, and Jon’s heart sank. It was a low blow, and he knew it. _Unworthy of me._

Minisa Tully had a poor selection of suitors, many from much lower houses, or younger sons. This was despite being of high birth, proper age, and being a great beauty.  Seventeen years old, Minisa was a petite, less-mentally scarred version of her royal cousin at that age, with flowing auburn hair and deep blue eyes. Unfortunately, a shadow hung over her: her mother’s reputation. While her brother had a future as Lord of Riverrun to compensate, Minisa suffered the brunt of being half-Frey, born by one of the great adulteresses and traitors of Westeros. Despite being Tully from head to toe, there were even those who tried to suggest she was another of Roslin Frey’s bastards.

As a result, finding her a worthy match proved difficult.

Margaery got to her feet. “As you say, your Grace. Well, if we’re done here.”

 _This was not how I meant to get rid of her._ Jon stood and kissed her hand. “My lady. Please give my compliments to your family.”

The Lady of Riverrun swept out, and Jon groaned. He needed fresh air. The stress was getting to him. It seemed every day he had something new to deal with. And he was so very, very tired. He was still not quite middle-aged, but he was older than he’d been. He didn’t have the energy he once possessed.

He’d stepped down as Hand when the twins were born, and for the most part, that had left him with a bit more time on his hands. But it also left him with a very non-specific title and role on the council that allowed for a lot of “flexibility”. Because he wasn’t officially “master” of anything, people assumed that he wasn’t doing much.

So when a member of the council had to depart court for whatever reason, Jon usually found himself filling that person’s role. It could be difficult, as Jon had his own regular duties, but not terrible. As Hand, Jon had to oversee a bit of everything to a certain degree, so he wasn’t completely alien to the various offices. If it got to be too much, he had help.

But rarely was it that he had to handle a personal crisis and have a major part of his usual support system out of commission. Sansa was recovering, and being more active, but she wasn’t in any condition to take on public duties again. She spent most of her time with the children or with Arya, handling Northern affairs. But both of them were under enormous strain. Daenerys, for once, was more of a hindrance than a help, distracted and focused on the wrong things. Arya was there, but she was Warden of the North and had to shoulder a lot of her own responsibilities. And frankly, she wasn’t exactly a master when it came to the royal court herself.

Thus Jon had far less help, far more duties, and far more personal issues combined. He’d handled strain before--- trying to keep the Watch afloat in preparation of a hoard of Others that could descend upon them at any moment, all while juggling the Wildlings, Stannis, and his brothers. But he’d ended up killed thanks to oversights in dealing with people day to day.

Jon had been a boy then, and he was a man now. The royal court was even more hung up on interpersonal relations than the Watch had been, though the lack of oncoming hoard was a comfort. The situation wasn’t as desperate, and he was stronger and smarter than he had been as Lord Commander. Still… The stress was starting to cause minor mistakes if his hiccup with Lady Tully was anything to go by.

_And now I have to go meet with the man who groped my wife when she was twelve years old. Perfect._

Tyrion had brought another issue to their attention. He had a plan for gathering Littlefinger’s gold. The remnants of the vast empire the man had built. The worst part was, judging by the plans and documents the dwarf sent over, the scheme was legitimate. Petyr Baelish’s holdings and resources went way beyond Harrenhal, the Eyrie, and a few brothels, it seemed. All sorts of things the royal treasurers had missed had come to light. Not just gold, but sources of information, people, documents, secrets. Too much to be ignored. So much so that it seemed impossible.

But Jon, Sansa, and Arya had reviewed the details Tyrion sent them, and found no tricks. The extent of it proved both astounding and infuriating. Jon went back and looked at the records from when the crown repossessed Baelish’s assets years and years ago, and from the sound of things, they really only covered a fraction of it.

 

Margaery blamed it on her predecessor, Arthur Butterwell. By the time he’d left the council six years ago, his wits had dulled somewhat with age. He was now comfortably retired at his estate in the Riverlands. But he’d served the council well, even if his successor had voiced some complaints. Jon and Dany always wrote it off as pure ambition talking. _But if he truly missed this much…_

 _What we might have built with this._ A lot of it dealt with criminal and other unsavory activities--- money that was probably working towards those same ends today, but in different hands. It bothered him immensely, to the point where he felt like there was something he was forgetting. There was more driving his irritation than missed potential.

 _Perhaps just speaking to Tyrion?_ He’d not exchanged words with Lannister since that night in the library. He shared the concerns others had about how he might act. _But now is the time._ Nani had returned and declared his wife healthy enough to leave bed for a few hours a day, but Jon would be damned if he let her take a meeting with her former husband in her state without him there.

Still, spending an afternoon with Tyrion Lannister didn’t appeal to him as it might have once. What had come to light regarding the dwarf’s marriage to Sansa changed the whole dynamic. When Jon countered in the exchanges he’d witnessed between Sansa and Tyrion, it only made things worse. _He touched her. A child of twelve._ Naerys was twelve.

Jon had difficulty entertaining prospective betrothals for his eldest child, though she was of an appropriate age. _But wedded and nearly bedded… How could anyone even want to touch someone so young? And a prisoner, too._ He remembered his fears about Arya when he’d heard of the Ramsay Bolton “marriage.” Tyrion was no Ramsay Bolton, but he was no champion of virtue, either.

 _I took the lack of consummation for granted._ Jon always believed that his former friend had been the sort who couldn’t even think of engaging in relations with someone so young. It wasn’t so hard to believe. In many cases, when brides were wed that young, consummation was put off until the wife had reached a more appropriate age. Anything younger than fourteen was unthinkable. Flowered or not, so young a body couldn’t handle the strain of childbirth. When Jon had heard of the Lannister marriage, he’d sighed with relief when he’d heard it was Tyrion, not Joffrey, comfortable in the knowledge that his wise, funny, compassionate friend would do the right thing and simply use this match to protect her. Sansa had only ever confirmed this. _But he put his hands on her. She was a prisoner, twelve years old, and he touched her._

Jon forced himself to swallow his anger. He needed fresh air. So he departed his study and went out to the yard to observe the children practicing.

Robb’s auburn curls were flattened to his neck and face under his helmet. His uncle Jannel, looking like a bear attacking a lamb no matter how much he was clearly holding back, came at the boy with a practice blade, crying out directions. “Right! Left! Left! Left! Left! Right! Left! Right! Right! Right!”

With the last “Right!” he actually made for Robb’s left, knocking the unprepared eleven-year-old down.

“You said right!” Robb complained, struggling to sit up.

“You trusted your enemy. Biggest mistake you can make.”

Resisting his better judgment, Jon hurried over and went to offer his son a hand. “Pay less attention to his words, more attention to his eyes, shoulders, and feet. That’ll tell you far more about where to block next.”

Robb looked at his father’s hand, then pushed himself up on his own. “Right. Got it,” his son said, his tone clipped. Jon’s stomach sank. _What did you expect?_ It had been this way for weeks. Over the years, Robb always sought out his father’s guidance, especially when it came to fighting. This had changed abruptly since the night in the library.

When Robb looked at his father now, he saw a man who had failed to protect his mother. The accusation was always there. _You should have stopped it. You should have saved her. You should have charged into the Great Sept and pulled her out before they could humiliate her, killing anyone who got in your way._

No matter how much Jon told himself that Robb was wrong, it was hard to convince himself of that when he looked into his son’s blue eyes and saw all his failures reflected back at him. Such guilt was not rational, he knew. Daenerys had held firm in her position at the time, and Jon was in no position to just charge into the Great Sept at the time and take her. The city was still full of Sparrows, and taking such a rash act without the approval of the queen would have been utter lunacy. But such a thing was hard to explain to someone so young.

Jannell gave Jon a sympathetic look.

“You should listen to your father, lad!” From the fence, a short man with reddish-blond hair sat between Ravella and Brandon. Henrick, Arya’s Master of Horse and Jannell’s best friend, among other things. He was born and raised in a family of higher servants at Last Hearth, of enough status and Northern enough to speak his mind to certain degrees. “He’s killed White Walkers and wights, and they don’t speak our tongue. He knows how to handle enemies.”

“If they’re corpses or made of ice,” Robb muttered under his breath. Jon snatched his son’s wrist then. Enough was enough.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing. If you’ve forgotten what it was, you can do some work in the armory after supper to help you remember. You can tell me all about it then.” Jon didn’t have time to resolve everything, but he’d given the boy enough space and patience. Until that evening, Robb didn’t have to like him, but it was time the boy at least respected him.

With that, he turned on his heel and went to meet his wife, who waited for him in their solar, gowned in grey and white.

They adjourned to her private study. Like Jon, Sansa didn’t much care for the more formal, public meeting rooms with their alabaster walls and high ceilings, seemingly designed for everything said to echo loud enough to be heard within a twenty yard radius. Nor did they like the ridiculous, oversized tables. Meeting people in a more private setting put others on their turf, and often provided an unexpected setting for a guest that had expected alabaster council chambers.

Jon’s study was a wood-paneled cell with marked maps and weapons on the walls. Sansa’s was another thing entirely: flowers on every surface, lace covering her octagonal tea table, chairs with velvet cushions, and an enormous family portrait painted on the wall. A sunny, feminine room seemingly more suited for sewing circles than matters of state. It tended to unnerve the lords of the realm more than Jon’s weapons did. Many an esteemed statesmen might be happy to make small talk of warfare and masculine triumph. Fewer felt comfortable addressing things like teaching year-old children to walk. They couldn’t look to the walls for the same sort of common ground.

Jon did prefer his study, though. There was a lot one could read from a person by listening to how they discussed violence.

Tyrion Lannister limped in, his face stitched, trailed by a young manservant carrying a heap of books and scrolls. When he saw Jon, he paused, inhaled, and bowed. “Your Graces.”

 

The prince nodded stiffly. His eyes went to Tyrion’s hands. _I put my filthy hands upon her!_ His fingers were short, though his palms were regular-sized. Out of any other part of the dwarf, his hands seemed the least harmed by the years and wounds he’d sustained. But Jon looked at them and felt worse than he did looking at the hole where Tyrion’s nose used to be.

“My Lord of Lannister. Please, sit,” Sansa said graciously, her smile fixed. Tyrion looked at the dining chair awkwardly, and it took both of them a few seconds to realize the issue. The chair was a bit high, and Tyrion’s size disadvantage was only compounded by his poor hip and shoulder. The manservant, arms full, looked frantically for a surface to set his master’s things on, or possibly a stool.

 _We should have brought a stool._ Sansa blushed a little. “Of course, I’m sorry. Jon, would you help him?”

Jon hesitated, then went to pull out a chair and offer a hand to the dwarf. Tyrion reddened, but took Jon’s help and climbed in with a wince. Jon felt Tyrion’s hand in his and tried not to squirm. _Filthy hands._

“You have a habit, my lady, of making me climb people.” Tyrion said, smiling as if it were just a jape, but his tone was mixed. Jon sighed, exasperated. He felt like they’d erred somehow, but wasn’t sure what else could be done at this point.

 _We should have thought to bring a stool, so he could help himself up._ They actually had a few around their apartments, for the children. Jon remembered those days at the Wall, when he was just beginning to heal from the arrows wounds he’d sustained from the Wildlings. He’d loathed being helped around, hobbling and clutching onto people like Maester Aemon. He remembered Tyrion Lannister, and how he’d moved years ago. He waddled as he walked, but did somersaults in mid-air. _No more of that. At least my wounds healed._ The leg acted up sometimes when he was tired now that he got older, but it didn’t inhibit him to such an extreme degree as this. _Would he have preferred it if his man had helped him?_

“It is not by design, my lord.” Sansa said quietly, looking at her lap. Jon went to sit himself, and a maid came in to pour them tea. There was a long, awkward silence. He watched Tyrion, who gave him an odd, embarrassed look before giving Sansa a once over. And that shook something within him.

Jon glowered as the tea was poured. _Stop goading her. You don’t get to goad her. Not when you put your hands on her._

“My lord?” The youth asked, breaking the silence and making Jon want to kiss him. “Shall I depart?”

Tyrion waved his hand, and the boy ran out, leaving the room envious.

 _Please stop looking at my wife._ Jon wanted to scream. It was just so frustrating. Some of his instincts made him want to just welcome the man. Some of them called for pity. Somewhere pure curiosity. Some were based on business. Other parts made him want to rip the man’s head off.

Sansa spoke, finally. “Allow me to offer my apologies, my lord.”

_You’re apologizing? For what?_

“---For my daughter’s actions. I hope you are recovering well and that the masters have been showing you every comfort and consideration. Her actions towards you were entirely uncalled for. I assure you, she is being punished.”

Jon nearly cursed at hearing Sansa apologize. He should have had his daughter come in and apologize instead. Naerys had written a letter of contrition to Lannister, and expressed clear remorse. _But her mother of all should not be the one apologizing to this man. For anything._ Naerys was old enough for her actions to be her own.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Tyrion told her. His tone was genuine and Jon was reminded of the man he’d met as a boy. “I got the girl’s letter. She was distressed. I have done worse things under distress. And that was… Quite a shock. Your girl has very impressive strength. Too bad her aim was poor.”

Jon almost felt the urge to defend his daughter at that. Her aim was actually quite good. Jon had taught her to fight himself. But he resisted the urge. Now was not the time, and Tyrion’s words had implications one simply had to address.

“Your meaning?” 

“Well, I was hardly the one responsible for that… incident regarding you. She ought to have been directing her wrath on one of them.”

“Most of them are dead,” Jon countered. Tyrion looked at him in alarm, and Jon realized that was the first thing he’d said. “Not that that justifies her hitting you.”

Tyrion gave him an odd, guarded look. Then he smiled again. “True. And to be fair, it was dark.” For a second, Jon thought that was the end of it, but Tyrion continued to speak. “And one of the living perpetrators of that miscarriage of justice _is_ rather short even if she isn’t as small as I am. Things can get confusing for someone so young.”

The royal couple glanced at each other. _Should we let him go there, or not?_

The dwarf made the decision for them. “Though honestly, I can’t think of anyone who looks less like our beautiful queen than myself.”

_And there it is._

His wife pursed her lips, sipped some tea, squirted a bit of lemon into it, stirred, then looked Lannister in the eyes. “The queen merely did her duty in looking into the claims made against me.”

“Claims made on entirely circumstantial evidence, if not utterly farcical and baseless. She had a duty to her loyal, prominent vassals. As I remember it correctly, you were one of the first lords paramount to bend the knee. You were also more or less a child when your supposed ‘crimes’ took place, fully under the control of a powerful criminal. And the crimes of your accusers towards you were far more apparent and easily proven than your own charges. Your home was invaded and destroyed, your son---” Tyrion stopped then, realizing that avenue wasn’t the best to go down. Jon went to clutch his wife’s hand when he heard her inhale. “---Well, it was by Coldwater and Moore forces, and by Coldwater’s son.”

“They were powerful men demanding justice,” Sansa protested, her voice shaky, “The queen did not want to risk provoking war by leaving their complaints unanswered.”

“Yes, because no war could _possibly_ be started if the Lady of Winterfell was unjustly accused, imprisoned, abused, tried, and executed for crimes she was obviously innocent of thanks to the wild accusations of the very men who had invaded the North and killed the heir to both the Eyrie and Winterfell,” snapped Tyrion, his annoyance getting the better of him.

He stopped then, and paled. “My lady, I--- I am sorry.”

Jon’s hand flew to his wife’s, which he could feel clutching the armrest of her seat. He leaned forward, angry. “You need to learn to control yourself, Lannister.”

“Of course,” Tyrion replied, but his tone took on a more mocking edge when his eyes fell to Jon. “I’m sorry for voicing such objections. I of course yield to Rhaegar Targaryen’s son on the issues of how to treat a lady of House Stark. It’s not like there are issues regarding that situation.”

His heart pounded upon hearing that. Sansa swallowed. “There are all sorts of things one can take issue with. Like a man being betrothed to a young girl with a castle to her name, allowing her to be ignorant of this until the morning of the wedding, then claiming that he ‘didn’t want the marriage’ and that he’d put an end to it the second she said the word.” Her words hit their mark, but she otherwise kept herself composed. Jon did the same, though the words seriously bothered him. Some of the same guilt he felt looking into his son’s eyes returned to him. His stomach twisted. Sansa kept her tone neutral. “I believe your reason for coming to meet me was to discuss uncovering certain funds?

Tyrion sat back, looking relieved. He gestured to his manservant impatiently. “The names and maps, Tom.”

The youth hurried forward and rearranged Tyrion’s plate to make room for the parchment. A map of King’s Landing was lain before them, with ink marking certain places. The dwarf struggled to his feet and leaned forward to point to certain marks.

“A few decades ago, Littlefinger owned nine out of ten city officials. Obviously that’s changed. The officials, and of course Littlefinger’s hold on them. But some remain, along with a number of his old lackeys who ran various businesses for him. Many of these people have technically been living off Littlefinger’s property for years.  The contacts I was able to track down can lead us to others. Others who likely know where some of Littlefinger’s other properties, stashes of goods, and any money he likely took from the crown, would be. As it is, here are a few businesses marked that at the very least owe you a look at their books, if not a share of their property.”

“I don’t want to strip innocent people of their livelihoods,” said Sansa evenly. Her hand was still joined with Jon’s.

“Then it’s a good thing that almost none of Littlefinger’s agents were innocent,” replied the dwarf.

 _Good point._ Jon scanned the map. The marks on it were not as plentiful as he would have expected. He said so. “These don’t look like the remains of a man with the influence you mentioned.”

“Well, excuse me, but I’ve been nursing a broken face whilst acquiring most of this information.”

“’Most’?” Jon asked, shifting uncomfortably.

“Well, since I arrived, I of course gathered some information about the court and city,” Tyrion replied, shrugging. “I am here to represent Lannister interests. I would hardly be capable of doing such a duty if I didn’t know my surroundings.”

“Did Commander Payne deliver this information?” Jon asked. _Pod was the one who asked Daenerys to bring Tyrion to court._ His stomach sank. Pod was his friend, and a skilled commander, not to mention Dany’s paramour. He did not want to think that Pod would just be giving out any information to Tyrion, whatever their relationship was. Jon had actually been the one to make Podrick the Commander of the Gold Cloaks in one of his last acts as Hand when the last retired. Dany was afraid of showing too much favoritism. In a commander, they wanted loyalty and discretion along with skill. Things Pod had in abundance. Thus Jon championed the appointment.

But the commander was also loyal to Tyrion. Pod had shared with Jon his adventures seeking out his former master after Joffrey’s death. _He scoured every inch of Westeros for him._

Tyrion hesitated, and cringed. But he also looked Jon right in the eye. “Pod is not my source. When I arrived, he offered me some cursory information on the court and the city, but nothing that would cross any boundaries. Most of my more… _extensive_ knowledge was bought with Lannister gold.”

“Then Martyn is as generous as always,” remarked Sansa. “Some of these businesses are brothels?”

“Of course. Littlefinger knew a solid investment. There isn’t a place in the world that loses its desire for women.”

 _Or girls._ Jon swallowed and glanced at his wife. The two of them had a few personal pet causes they liked to handle. Jon had, in recent years, drafted and worked on enforcing laws that required men to provide some income for their bastard children. It proved a thorny matter to solve, considering how difficult it was to prove paternity, but it was something he was continuing to work on. The worst of the unforeseen issues was the increased threat to women who fell pregnant--- something Jon felt frequent guilt for. One of Sansa’s causes was the welfare of the whores of Westeros—especially the ones who were under age. Hosting any whores under sixteen was now illegal, but that too had unforeseen consequences. They’d learned a lot in recent years about the complexities of such matters, and one such complexity was occurring to him now.

“Whatever funds that can be gleaned from those establishments should go to the workers.” Sansa said quickly. Jon smiled at her and rubbed her arm.

Tyrion looked surprised. “That’s a lot of gold.”

“And a lot of workers who are likely little more than slaves,” commented Sansa dryly, “Even with the efforts in recent years to make things easier for the prostitutes of King’s Landing---“

“---Oh, I’d say they’re already pretty easy.”

Jon cradled his brow. _Could he have come up with a worse joke to make?_ It wasn’t just Sansa’s history that made this bad--- though that was more than enough on its own--- But his wife worked closely with the Faith to take care of many of the brothel women. It was like making a joke about the Father buggering the Warrior to the High Septon.

He looked at the dwarf with hard eyes, knowing Sansa would be doing the same. Tyrion held up his hands. “A poor joke, I am sorry. But, my lady, a very considerable chunk of any wealth we might recover will come from the brothels.”

“Then we can rest easy knowing it goes to the right people. My wife was not the only one harmed by Petyr Baelish’s vices,” replied Jon. He reached back and he and Sansa interlocked their fingers. “Any funds we take will likely come out of whatever compensation or living means brothel owners provide their workers.”

“We’re not interested in stealing food from the mouths of the innocent.” Sansa shrugged. “Their lives are already hard enough.”

There was a flicker in Tyrion’s eye, but he mercifully kept his mouth shut. “Very well. Though I fail to see what the benefit to all this trouble is.”

“I personally know that Littlefinger had investments beyond whores. Extensive ones,” said Sansa.

“I am aware,” said Tyrion, “But those are going to be more difficult to secure.”

Sansa sat back a bit, chewing her bottom lip. Then she looked at Tyrion carefully. “I suppose if more of his documents could be acquired, it would make it easier.”

“It would. Some of the sources I tracked down will probably have some. But are there any in your possession, my lady?”

“Not anymore. I gave everything I had up to the crown years ago. Some were taken by the Vale lords, but those went to the crown as well.”

“I don’t have access.” Tyrion informed her.  “So I couldn’t tell you how useful they are.”

“We may grant you access,” Jon replied, “But before we do that, we want assurances that you won’t abuse such a responsibility.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

“Follow up on these. The City Watch will help you, and Pod and Lady Tully shall help oversee this,” Sansa told him. They’d planned a few ideas before the meeting in order to deal with the dwarf deftly. “If you can recover some wealth and disperse it by our instructions fairly, we shall allow you to see the papers.”

“And when you’re dealing with the brothels, keep it strictly business, no pleasure.” Jon told him.

Tyrion bristled. “You want me to work with Margaery Tyrell?! Her family framed us for regicide!”

Sansa stiffened. “The courts have determined that it was Olenna, not Margaery or her immediate family.”

“Bollocks. She and Joffrey were drinking from the same blasted cup!”

“That does not mean she knew that you would be framed.” But Sansa’s grip on Jon’s hand tightened. This had become one of those facts that they liked to ignore as much  as possible.

“But she was fine with sitting by while it happened!”

“She was a sixteen-year-old girl who would have seen her family destroyed. Not much older than I was, nothing more than a pawn in the proceedings.”

Jon could see this argument was upsetting her. Sansa liked to use forgiveness as much as possible when handling these things. Not that she was stupid- Aside from Loras and Margaery, the Tyrells that were present during Joffrey’s assassination were rarely all that welcome at court and encouraged to stay in the Reach.

He cut in. “Margaery and Willas are Mistress of Coin and Hand of the Queen respectively. So regardless, if you wish to function here at court, you’re going to have to learn to deal with them. One of the ways we’ve learned to function so well is by letting _bygones be bygones_ and not attacking people for every ill done.”

Tyrion seemed to get the message. “I understand.” He swallowed heavily. “I shall get to work, then. Hopefully… I shall prove myself to the royal family. If that is all…”

Jon nodded. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”

But there was enough in the dwarf’s eyes to make Jon feel uneasy. Once he was gone, Jon turned to his wife and cupped her face. “Are you alright?”

She leaned in and nuzzled his palm and wrist. “As well as can be expected. Thank you for being here. I was worried before but I’m glad you were there. I should have told you before. About Tyrion. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Arya’s words echoed in his head. _She lies to herself._ He stroked her cheek with his thumb. His back ached. His leg ached. His eyes ached. His heart ached.

It was Sansa's turn to cup his face. "My poor, long-suffering husband. You look so tired."

Exhausted was the better word. Jon appreciated her noticing, though. He smiled for her, but her eyes remained narrowed in concern. “Rest, Jon. Come back to our quarters with me and take a nap at the very least. If only for my peace of mind.”

“I have to meet with Daenerys,” Jon told her, “I’ve been putting this off. And it’s time I spoke to my aunt about a few things.”

Some of Tyrion’s earlier words were ringing in his head, too. _“Because no war could possibly be started if the Lady of Winterfell was unjustly accused, imprisoned, abused, tried, and executed for crimes she was obviously innocent of thanks to the wild accusations of the very men who had invaded the North and killed the heir to both the Eyrie and Winterfell!”_ The man had a point. There were a few other things that had to be discussed, as well. Daenerys hadn’t told Jon or Sansa about Naerys’ further inquiries. And now it turned out that there was remaining wealth her people failed to uncover from Baelish. So much could have been avoided if his aunt had cooperated more.

He leaned forward and kissed Sansa’s cheek. “I’ll be back before long.” 

She gripped the end of his sleeve and held him down when he tried to rise. “Promise me you’ll rest soon.”

Jon nodded. He made his way out of the room and down the halls, transferring from his family’s wing to Dany’s. Proper inquiries were made, and one of her maids led him to his aunt’s study: a large, circular room with tapestries and dragon moldings everywhere. She sat at her cherry-wood desk in a plain kirtle, going over a set of books. But she raised her head and smiled when he entered. 

“Jon! How are you? How is Sansa? Naerys? The boys?” 

“We’re all as well as can be expected,” Jon told her, keeping at a distance. His aunt pulled out a stool, but he indicated that he wanted to stand. “We need to talk.”

Her eyes flickered, and she stood as well. “Yes. You’re angry with me. And I understand why.”

“Do you?” Jon replied, frustrated. “Do you really understand? Because I just had a meeting with Tyrion Lannister that revealed a number of things that should have been discussed years ago. Do you have any idea what that is like? Having to discuss one’s family history and issues with a man who touched your wife when she was just a girl? Daenerys, there has been a lot I’ve ignored over the years, plenty I’ve dealt with. But it’s started to hurt my children. And I can’t anymore.”

“I should have told you that Naerys came to me. But I was worried about betraying her trust.”

Jon’s fists curled. “And what about my trust? I trusted you to help me do what is best for my daughter. I can’t do that if you’re keeping secrets.”

“Jon, she’s my heir.”

“No, I am.” He scowled. Color rushed to Dany’s cheeks.

“Of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking---”

“---That’s part of the problem.” He began to pace back and forth. “I know it’s a true possibility that I shall never be king. I _hope_ I shall never be king. I sat on that ugly, awful iron chair enough when I was your Hand. If you outlive me, Naerys is the next ruler. But she is still a child now. And I am still here. And frankly, I think my trust should be the priority." 

Dany nodded. “That’s fair. It was stupid of me.”

“You know what else was stupid?” He asked. “Forcing the Lady of Winterfell into a sept cell and parading her out on trial to be accused by the men who killed her son. You kept telling me it was to prevent war. But if she’d died, another war would have been started. Did you ever think of that? Sansa bent the knee to you. She was among your highest vassals. What support do you think you’d have gained from your other high vassals if the North rose against you for executing their liege on trumped up charges? Do you honestly think Coldwater and Moore would have been greater threats to you than my wife’s ghost? Coldwater’s son killed Eddie Stark Arryn, for pity’s sake. The last of house Arryn was extinguished due to their actions.”

Daenerys rubbed her temple. “I know. I was stupid. And I’m sorry! Why do you think I’ve been so eager to speak to Sansa alone? But she is the one I need to apologize to, Jon. Not you.”

“Oh, I think you owe me some sort of apology. You made me complicit in her humiliation. I trusted you and your judgment.”

“You didn’t have to, though. You could have brought this to my attention back then. You had more knowledge of Westeros than I did.” Her violet eyes flashed. 

Jon reddened. This was true, and he’d not mentioned that particular argument at the time. But he also doubted that Dany would have listened to him if he had. His aunt back then was more arrogant than she was now, and still struggling to accept new counsel. Likely, if he had mentioned the North going to war over Sansa, she’d have laughed and talked of how the North’s resources were low, how the region was falling apart, and the immediate threat from them was vastly below what the Vale had. She would have taken the credo of “The North remembers” with a grain of salt.

 “I was still recovering. You were the ruler. What could I have done if you chose to dismiss my complaints the way you dismissed the others? Charge into the sept, blade drawn? The city would have erupted in chaos. What then? You likely would have dismissed that argument, as you dismissed the others. You dismissed everything I said, just like you dismissed my inquiries into Baelish’s fortune.”

Still, it bothered him that Dany had a point. He _hadn’t_ thought of that argument years ago. _I was young, foolish, overcome by my new role, her, the dragons, the capital, recovering from the war. I put too much trust in her. I didn’t think clearly enough._ In those days, he found Dany terrifying. She was the Mother of Dragons, the woman who had taken down the Great Other. Almost ethereal. Jon wasn’t easily cowed back then. He’d stared down Stannis Baratheon and killed wights. But he’d felt truly intimidated his new aunt. It had taken a while for him to realize that she was even human, and even longer to accept that.

Daenerys seemed to seize upon the remark about the fortune. “So Tyrion Lannister has found something?”

“Possibly.” Jon snapped. “But don’t change the subject. Do you remember? All those years ago? After Coldwater and Moore were found guilty? I came to you and asked you about Baelish’s estate. And you just assured me it was all taken care of and gave me a lecture about being overzealous about punishment. But it wasn’t taken care of, Dany. Just like Sansa wasn’t taken care of. Just like Naerys’ worries weren’t taken care of. If you’d just listened to me and communicated, there could be roads and wells up North built with Baelish gold. Sansa might have had a more dignified introduction to court, and I wouldn’t have to be explaining to my children how I could let their mother be humiliated that way. All of us have spent the last few weeks having things exposed to us by Tyrion Lannister. And that should not have happened. We should have heard things from you. I should have. I would have, if you’d trusted me enough. I always trusted you.”

He stared at his aunt carefully. Her cheeks were reddening, and she appeared a bit angry, but also somewhat chastened.

She swallowed. “You’re right.” But then her expression hardened. “But I’m not the only one at fault, Jon. You could have done more. You could have insisted upon seeing her. I knew even less than you did back then. I certainly didn’t know Sansa as well as you did. I had to be impartial. But you didn’t necessarily have to be. And it wasn’t like I made you completely powerless. More could have been done on both of our ends.”

Jon glanced down. That was true. He didn’t have to charge the Sept to see her. If he’d insisted upon it, they’d have likely let him in. And if he’d known the conditions of her imprisonment sooner, he’d have done something. He should have at least given her that. But he’d backed down too easily. After how he’d alienated his brothers, he was afraid of defying the wishes of his cousin, of his queen, of making things more chaotic. _I should have made more inquiries. Myranda Royce and Anya Waynwood were at court._ But he hadn’t. He’d been so consumed with everything it wasn’t until he saw his cousin there that the reality of the situation set in.

“It’s true. I’m not blameless in all of this.” He clenched his fists. “But my points still stand, Dany.” 

She nodded. “I’ve neglected things. I’ve neglected you. And I’m sorry. I was scrambling in those early years, and I should have involved you more. We might have helped each other avoid quite a few mistakes. And I should have told you about Naerys coming to me, or had you look through the Baelish estates when you wanted to. I just saw that idea as a distraction. And we had so much on our minds. And honestly.... After everything I’d heard about that man…. I wanted it all put to rest. I didn’t want to think of that monster, or any of the other monsters who had hurt your wife. I gave the work to some friends who had handled finances for me in Slaver’s Bay, and they brought in a decent hall and I decided it should just be done with. I wanted that monster, who had hurt so many people in Westeros, wiped away. I wanted as many of those tyrants wiped away as possible. So I ignored things. I’m sorry. I should have suggested you open up the case further. I should have trusted you. But...” 

“But what? I was your Hand at the time, Dany. I was one of your only advisors. Your _Hand_.” She’d not recognized the full significance of the post back then, most likely. But she’d understand now.

“You were also falling in love, Jon. I saw it that night you asked me.” Dany’s face softened. “And I didn’t want to see you spending hours upon hours looking into the affairs of the man who had hurt the girl you loved. We’d both seen too many ugly things. All of us, really. And I wanted you to have this, without any of that man’s awful work clinging to you or her.”

Jon’s anger lessened somewhat. It was shockingly sentimental. “You were worried about me?”

Dany nodded. “I didn’t want you to have to face Sansa’s tormenter like that. She’d beaten him to death to free herself of him. She didn’t need him re-entering her life from the grave. And, learning what you learned, feeling what you felt, I couldn’t imagine what getting engrossed in that man’s legacy would do to you or to her. Any involvement you had with that portion of her life should have been up to her. That said… I should have at least had it looked into further, though.”

“And Sansa’s trial?” Jon asked, fury rising again. Dany looked at the ground in shame.

“I spoke with Naerys about it,” she told him, “And she basically told me what you just told me. And I haven’t been able to sleep since. I’m sorry, Jon. I should have listened to you more. I should have, at the very least, made sure she wasn’t treated like that. It hurts to think what might have happened had she not dug herself out of that. You’re not the only one who cares for her, you know." 

“I know.” Jon moved closer to his aunt and put his hand on her shoulder. “I should have realized that war would come if she died and told you. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Neither of us were. But for your sake, at least, I should have at least ordered her from the Great Sept and had her fostered in the Red Keep. I should have spoken to her myself. I didn’t realize the gravity of it all. And I…. Gods, I nearly killed Sansa!”

Daenerys did not cry easily. So she fought back some tears. “Jon, I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” Jon sighed. “Luckily, you didn’t kill her.”

“Thank the gods. Them and Waynwood and Royce. And Sansa.” His aunt went over to one of the dragon-headed end tables and rested her weight against it. She stared at the surface for about half a minute, then looked up. “Then you got her to fall in love with you.”

Jon reddened. Something about how she said that bothered him. _The son of Prince Rhaegar…_ “You make it sound like it was some sort of plot. I fell for her.”

“But you were good enough to make her return those feelings. Because you’re a good man.” She stepped forward, face softening further. “And because of that, House Targaryen gained an alliance with the North, several heirs, and one of our best advisors. You were such a good man that you brought in someone who owed us nothing, who had suffered thanks to us. You got her forgive and join us. It insured the future of our dynasty. And for that, and much more, Jon, I thank you.

“I haven’t always been as open about the gratitude I feel, but it’s there. And you’ve done so much. You went to Pyke when I asked you. You executed Roslin Frey. You took charge of the city watch. You served as hand. You let me play a part in Naerys’ upbringing. You’ve always been an invaluable part of my reign. I can’t imagine what it would be without you. And I’m so sorry I’ve helped bring this struggle to your home. I am. I truly am.”

Jon finally sat upon the stool offered to him earlier. “I know, Dany. But I can’t just blindly accept that you’ll always do the right thing anymore. I need to know you’ll be more reliable. No more secrets, Dany, especially not about my children.” 

His aunt sat across from him and nodded. “Whatever help you need, it’s yours.”

“I want leave to grant Tyrion Lannister access to certain royal files, should he prove competent at some of the tasks we’ve set him.”

The dragon queen waved her hand. “Done. Actually, I’m planning on using Tyrion for my own ends as well. He thinks he may have some ideas on hatching the eggs.” 

Jon’s eyes widened. He felt his pulse quicken. He’d heard whispers, but not believed them. “You actually believe he could?”

Dany snorted and sat in her chair across from him. “After a dozen years of waiting, I’m ready to hope for anything. Do you think he could do something Willas couldn’t? Can he be trusted?”

Jon mused over this. “Yes to the first question. To the second, I’m not sure. Sansa and I are testing him now on this Baelish matter. If he passes...”

 _He’ll still be the man who groped my wife. He’ll still be a kinslayer._ But Jon had seen enough criminals in black die heroically to believe in redemption. Despite everything, he wanted to believe in that. 

Dany nodded, assuming what the end of that sentence would be. “Can I see your wife? I want to apologize to her.”

He shifted. “Let me speak with her first. But not immediately. The talk with Tyrion left her a little rattled. But I’ll speak with her. In the meantime, I need you or someone you trust picking up some of my duties. Maybe Davos. At this point in time… It’s getting to be too much, Dany. It was fine picking up dozens of duties when we were young, but I’m not so young anymore, and I have a family. I gave the Hand position to Willas for a reason.”

The queen nodded. “I understand. You need some time off. And the babe shall arrive soon.”

Jon nodded. The stress over that particular matter was also maddening. They’d lost two babes, and though Sansa’s pregnancy this time was healthy, he still feared for her. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, either. But he didn’t want to speak of it. Doing so made it too real. “I have to make things right with the children as well, and there is the Baelish thing, and the laws I’m looking into. I need someone to take over some duties with the Unsullied forces for a few weeks. I can do everything else, but I need some sort of break. And some more help.” 

“You have my full support for whatever you wish to do.” She seemed contrite. “Whatever I can do to make up for what has happened.”

Jon nodded. “Thank you.”

She looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, Jon knew she was really seeing him. A smile flashed across her face.

“That doesn’t mean, though, that you can just order me around. I’d remind you, I am still the Mother of Dragons. And your queen.”

The prince decided to let this slide. Dany had her pride, and she had a right to it. It would gain him nothing to take offense. “I never intended to forget that. But I’d like it if you could handle a few things for me. Or give them to someone trustworthy. There is the matter of the remains of Naerys’ court after she leaves for the Dreadfort, for instance.”

Daenerys swallowed. “Yes, about that. Are you sure you want to send her away like that?”

“Yes.” His tone and expression were firm. “She needs to learn to control herself. Someplace where she has to keep her wits about her and she’s not in the royal bubble. She’s going to be queen some day, and she has to learn to handle something harder than court without losing her composure like that. if she doesn’t learn that now, those consequences will be felt by the entire realm when she sits on the throne.”

 _And you have no business questioning my parenting decisions at the moment._ Jon didn’t like doing it either. He knew why Naerys did it. His daughter was heart-broken, something he understood all too well. And the whole action was a shock. His mind went to his own reaction when Alliser Thorne taunted him about Ned Stark on the Wall all those years ago, when he attacked him.

But Tyrion Lannister wasn’t Alliser Thorne, who could fight Jon off, who had authority, who had bullied him. Naerys had attacked a defenseless man who had done her no harm. She needed to leave the royal bubble and face things in a more harsh environment. She needed to deal with volatile situations. It was true that Naerys had her parents, and they both knew how to control themselves well. But they were tied to King’s Landing now, to the royal bubble. Magna Val would be a solid mentor to help his daughter learn to cool her dragon’s blood.

 _When I attacked Ser Alliser, Lord Commander Mormont separated us soon after. He had me go with him beyond the Wall, so I’d learn the harsh realities of the world firsthand, learn the value of controlling my actions._ Jon wasn’t sending his daughter to a frozen wasteland. The Dreadfort these days wasn’t nearly as dreadful. But it was a good deal more real, less comfortable, less forgiving than the luxury and deference that the royal court provided his child. In Val it had a good leader who would give her the counsel she needed. He couldn’t think of anyone better than the woman who had dragged Tormund Giantsbane through a wight-infested wasteland. _And getting her away from her hot-blooded aunt for a while can’t hurt either. Naerys has spent too much time flying with the dragons. She needs to come back to the ground._

“Of course.” Daenerys sighed. “Send over your notes regarding her court, and whatever materials you have on issues you’d like to be free of.”

“Thank you. In the meantime, I’ll talk to Sansa. I’m sure she’s eager to speak to you.” He felt his anger and irritation deflate somewhat. _But she’s more eager to see me rest. And I am eager to rest._ He had to meet with his son in the armory after dinner. He could use a nap. At the moment, he felt emotionally wrung out. So he said a quick goodbye to his aunt and went back to his bedchamber to find his wife and sister huddled together over her dressing table, looking over a map and chatting quietly. He smiled a little. One of the few good things to come out of this was seeing the two of them working together so much. When he entered, Arya gave him a squeeze.

“We can finish this up tomorrow,” she told Sansa, who nodded. Their sister departed, and Jon went to help his wife up and to the bed.

He got in beside her. “Darling, I’ve been meaning to ask you… Are you sure having Tyrion report to Margaery is wise?”

Blue eyes widened at him. “She’s the Mistress of Coin.”

“Yes, but Tyrion has a point. I just feel like you’re asking to make the situation more volatile.”

“That is up to him,” Sansa replied, “He’s going to have to learn to deal with someone like Margaery if he wants to play the game again. And if he can… he could do great things. And I intend to make sure Margaery watches herself.” 

“Maybe have Pod do most of the work with him in the beginning?” Jon suggested, stroking her hair. “He trusts Pod.”

His wife nodded. “Yes. I’ll make sure he’s given at least the illusion of room. But I feel like having her around will keep him on his toes. We’ve forgiven many old grudges. He has to learn to do it too. Even the reasonable ones.”

Jon squirmed a bit. “That’ll be easier said than done. He’s got a lot to forgive. And he hasn’t had as much time to adjust. And I’m not sure we can trust him.”

His wife’s eyes flashed. “I believe… I believe that he may be willing to put his own interests aside to help. There’s some genuine effort there." 

“What makes you so sure?” This surprised him, given his wife’s prior attitudes.

She pursed her lips. “Just the way he spoke today. Nothing more.”

 _Fine._ “But we’re going to have to be careful. We don’t wish to provoke him too much. Pod should be his main collaborator. Don’t throw him right into the rosebush just yet." 

Sansa nodded. “We’ll ease it through. Though I have to admit,” she smiled, “It’s not just Tyrion I’d like to keep on his toes. 

That got a laugh from the prince. He could imagine it well enough. Sometimes there was talk of the Tyrells having too much influence, too much of a hold on the court. Sansa’s confinement and all the recent drama had made that worse. _It might help to shake things up a little_  

His mind went to what Daenerys said about the dragon eggs. “Of course, let’s hope he doesn’t forgive too much. Tyrion Lannister and the Tyrells? You have to admit, they’d make an incredible team.”

Sansa groaned and wove her fingers through his. “So do we. But I don’t see that happening too soon. Now can we rest for a bit?”

“Just remind me to tell Waters to keep an eye on them as well.” He kissed her forehead as she nodded. They cuddled and slept until dinner. 


	13. Chapter 13: Goals and Misgivings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion begins his work with Margaery. People voice their concerns to Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to bbanzaiz for the beta-work!
> 
> Sorry about the wait guys. And the wait on Snake. RL stuff got in the way, but I'm hoping I'll be able to update more frequently soon. This chapter is big and it's a big deal, and will be presenting some unforeseen complications and teasing a lot. This is also one of those big "Jon and Sansa have a long, serious talk about a complicated issue" chapters. And it'll have tons of history involved. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter Thirteen: Goals and Misgivings

 

Tyrion:

 

The city of King’s Landing smelled considerably less like shit, he had to admit. And there seemed to be less of it smudged on the buildings and roads. Even the slums and the Street of Silk looked cleaner than he remembered them during the Long Summer of Robert Baratheon’s reign. There were still clear marks denoting the class and status of certain regions: the higher areas were more evenly paved, cleaner, with well-maintained fountains and such. But even his trip through Flea Bottom was not as dismal as those he remembered. The orphans’ cheeks were less hollow, their clothing better maintained.

 _Daenerys Targaryen should know how to clean up a city. Or at the very least, she knows the right people to know how to do it for her._ The Dragon Queen still ruled the three cities of Slaver’s Bay to an extent. But the actual day to day governance was handled by councils made up of prominent members of various guilds and classes, overseen by her loyalists who also commanded her military divisions there. Daenerys didn’t do too well ruling Meereen at first--- she was too foreign, she’d left too many loose ends in Astapor and Yunkai, she’d come down too hard on some issues while being too lax about others. She’d been forced to put Astapor and Yunkai under martial law for a while and organize all the freed men still loyal to her to fight off the forces of Qarth and the Harpies. Afterwards, she’d left much of the ruling to well-armed advisors, with a strict understanding that if anything too wild arose, the dragon would return. Essentially, her policy towards Slaver’s Bay was “don’t make me come over there.”

Not that she wasn’t involved, but there was only so much that could be accomplished at a certain distance. Still, Slaver’s Bay managed to even itself out over the years and rebuild itself. And Tyrion wasn’t surprised to see that the same could be said for Westeros. Likely, there’d been some policy and practice exchange involved in rehabilitating the various cities. The sewers, for one thing, were definitely cleaner. He wondered if any of his old tactics from Lannisport were used. Probably.

The city, hilariously enough, had Cersei to thank for much of its rehabilitation. Cersei kept racking up debt from the Iron Bank and snubbing them, to the point where they made good on their promise to have their due. Essentially, they funded Daenerys to come in and invade, cleaning up much of the costs that would have plagued the Dragon Queen otherwise. By the time the Targaryens took over, she had secured the throne itself with far less effort than one might expect: the common people were all too eager to rebel and oust the old regime, the Reach and Dorne were dispensing with the precious alliances that House Lannister needed so badly, and the tenuous hold the crown had on the Riverlands and North were of course wiped out by the Red Wolf. Then there was the headway made by Prince Aegon and the Golden Company. Even the Ironborn were being chastened when Victarion Greyjoy came running back with his tail between his legs and Stannis had given Asha Greyjoy the means to overthrow Euron and end the extended raiding.

 It was a good thing, too, for as it turned out there was another, far more present danger that Daenerys needed to focus her energies on: the Others. Stannis Baratheon died in that war, along with countless other good men. But the victory over the Night’s King helped secure most of the people who might have resisted her (the Vale being an exception, and their resistance was only a threat rather than outright insurrection). Shireen Baratheon was made Lady of the Stormlands and eagerly swore fealty to the Dragon Queen after being saved from the Red Witch Melisandre, who set the poor girl ablaze and nearly killed her. The North, Riverlands, Dorne, the Reach, and the Stormlands completely secure and the Free Folk situated, Queen Daenerys had found herself with enough support to essentially march to Casterly Rock and tell the new young Lord Martyn that he could either pay enormous reparations and debts to the crown, or she would wipe out House Lannister once and for all and replace them with someone who would pay their debts.

As Tywin Lannister had been stockpiling and hoarding gold reserves for decades upon decades, Casterly Rock was in a position to do this. Tyrion’s cousin wasn’t stupid, and he seemed to be one of the few Lannisters who had not inherited more pride than sense. Since the crimes of House Lannister were so extensive, and Cersei’s excesses were so intense, those reparations ended up being sizeable enough to keep the treasury afloat and begin work in earnest to repair damage done all over the realm.

Of course, it wasn’t just Lannister largesse that made things easier to repair. The spring had helped, for one thing. For another, power had become more centralized and consolidated over the years, as had funds. To the point where Westeros had established its own bank, one which the leaders of the major realms, including the three cities of Slaver’s Bay, all had shares in. Shares which altered in influence depending on how much the individual parties contributed to public funds. Even the royal treasury had to pay a fair share not to be left in the dust. It generated a great deal of gold for reconstruction, public welfare, and public good.

And that was actually partly thanks to Cersei as well. She’d left plans to create a Bank of Casterly Rock. The Small Council found these plans and altered them to serve the realm overall. With all the High Houses willing to work together for once (and the foreign support that they got from the three cities), they made it happen.

As a result, it became in the best interests of a very high number of people to help their neighbors. Public good even beyond one’s own fiefdom now yielded rewards.

The Iron Bank wasn’t happy. But those who were sick of their monopoly on fundraising in the west were. The new bank ended up being half the reason Qarth agreed to make peace.

The effects of this, Tyrion knew, were far-reaching. From ending wars, to great cities, to less shit on the heels of his boots as he walked out of one of the targeted brothels on the Street of Silk. Still, Tyrion called for his litter: clean streets or not, he had an awful limp.

“I think that went well,” remarked Pod, who helped Tyrion into the litter before mounting his horse. “The madam was quite forthcoming. How much of her information was valid, do you think?" 

Tyrion smiled slightly. His old squire had grown up enough to know that little that was offered freely was an honest deal. Most likely the woman’s overtures consisted of some valid pieces of information among a pool of misdirection and nonsense. She couldn’t outright refuse them, and completely misleading them was too great a risk as well, but she also couldn’t afford to become a complete snitch. Brothel owners had a reason to mistrust the authorities, even these days. And it was clear that the woman definitely didn’t trust Tyrion. _No one trusts a dwarf._

“I’d say about half, and I am willing to bet that even her lies could tell us something. We’ll see what our esteemed Mistress of Coin has to say.”

The trip inside the gilded transport was comically short, just down a couple of streets to a more respectable bazaar, where another litter, marked with arm quartered trout and roses.

Not that the owner was in it. She was by a stall that sold fine furs, chatting animatedly to the merchant there. In the midday sunlight, Margaery Tyrell Tully was still a beauty: all chestnut curls and dark almond eyes. Her figure was nearly as slim at five-and-thirty as it had been at sixteen. Her smile was bright and winning as she protested to the vendor, “No, my good man, you must understand. I need something hearty and tough, not too fancy. A mink or a dark bearskin will do nicely. The person I’m buying this for is to be a squire.”

The man, beefy and tall, reluctantly pulled back the silvery rabbit’s furs. “I see. My apologies, Madam, you are so lovely that it is hard for me not to present you with the prettiest things I have.”

Lady Tully laughed and grinned. “You are the height of charm.”

Tyrion sighed and looked over at Pod, who was watching with a slight smile on his face.  It irritated him to no end.

Anything involving the Tyrells tended to do that, especially regarding the “Mistress of Coin”. The Lady of Riverrun remained as charming as she’d ever been, not to mention she was as image-conscious, still frequenting local businesses and addressing everyone she met like a friend. Margaery Tyrell’s smiles and pleasantries never wavered. She greeted Tyrion for the first time with a smile and an expression of her joy at discovering he was alive after all these years.

“A surprise to me, considering.” Tyrion had said coldly. _Considering how your lot was intent on having me take the fall for Joffrey’s death._ Margaery’s face had wavered at that, but only for a second before she plastered that false smile on her face once again. She tried, throughout their interactions, to win him over, remarking on the “cleverness” of some of his work as he showed her his plans for uncovering Baelish’s funds, dropping references to his heroism during Blackwater, trying to engage him in banter. Aside from a few pointed barbs, Tyrion didn’t engage her. He was not going to let Margaery Tyrell play him. It took her a while to take this to heart. 

Perhaps others might be willing to conveniently ignore or excuse the fact that the Tyrells had framed Tyrion and Sansa for regicide, but Tyrion was not. He’d read over the logs of their trials as well. The blame was put solely on The Queen of Thorns, already dead by then and beyond justice. Sansa had even spoken on their behalf. But Tyrion wasn’t stupid. That girl was drinking from the same damn cup he was. _As if Olenna Tyrell would take the risk of letting her precious Margaery go unaware. Everything else—the dwarfs, the hairnet, Lady Olenna and Garlan’s positions--- was too carefully planned for any of them to leave a loose end like that. Hell, it might have been the girl who slipped that damned poison rock into his cup._

Apparently Lady Margaery thought she could make Tyrion forget the way she’d gotten Sansa to. No.  Eventually, though, she finally dropped her efforts in that regard.

Tyrion could understand killing Joffrey—everyone knew him to be a monster, and it was hardly expected that he’d be kind to his lady wife. Tommen, on the other hand, was a young boy, sweet, and easily manipulated. What angered Tyrion was the fact that they’d chosen to put the blame on him. A _ll while Garlan Tyrell was flattering me during that blasted wedding._ The Tyrells could have chosen anyone, anyone at all to frame. Oberyn Martell was famous for both his poison skill and his grudge against the Lannisters. They could have claimed it was one of the formerly-rebellious Houses that had supported Renly, or one of Stannis’s agents. They might have even been more subtle, poisoning Joffrey with something that would make it seem like an illness. 

Instead, they went along with Littlefinger’s plan to set Tyrion up for it. _So easy to cast me as a murderer, dwarf that I am. I even threatened Joffrey. He wondered how much of the scheme came exclusively from Littlefinger._ He’d framed Tyrion to remove him and what he knew from play, obviously, and to secure Sansa. But did the Tyrells want to target Tyrion themselves, or were they just willing to go along with it? He’d gone over the events of the wedding several times and recalled something the Queen of Thorns had said about Sansa visiting Highgarden. The Tyrells had wanted her and Winterfell for Willas. Perhaps they intended to whisk her away somehow.

Either way, they’d framed him, they did so deliberately.  They were responsible for him being brought up on trial, humiliated, his near-death, his exile to Essos--- all of it.

Of course, Tyrion did take a little pleasure in the fact that their careful plans didn’t end up going as they wished, partly thanks to him. Him killing Tywin had allowed Cersei the free reign to plot and throw Margaery in jail, after all. With Tywin alive, there was no way his sister would have been able to send the Kettleblacks in and threaten the little queen. _And I might have never killed my father if they hadn’t framed me. They thought they were declawing House Lannister and ended up unleashing the most uncontrollable beast of all._

As a result, their precious Margaery ended up being seized, humiliated, flung into a filthy Sept cell, having her bits examined by prodding septas, tried and disgraced with their chances of taking the Iron Throne destroyed. They even ended up being tried for Joffrey’s death.

Still--- they’d evaded justice. Margaery might have been taken prisoner, but she was quickly released into Randyll Tarly’s custody. Even after her trial, her sentence was Highgarden. When she and her family were brought to trial for their actual crimes, they ended up in Tarly custody again, had numerous people speak on their behalf, were acquitted, two of them ended up on the Small Council; Willas ended up Hand of the Queen, and Margaery was made Lady Tully.

_I was in a black cell, abandoned and accused by my own family, betrayed by allies, shipped off to Essos for twenty years, made a slave, starved, went mad. All while Margaery Tyrell was enjoying cake in Highgarden, Riverrun, and the Red Keep. They were just accepted back with open arms._

To have this woman overseeing him was almost too much to stand. But he had to. Since the library incident, he was watched more closely than ever, and it was clear that his mouth wouldn’t be shown the same level of tolerance it had thus far. Before, Martyn and Pod had protected him, and Jon had put up with some of his words, all of them showing him leniency out of pity. But Martyn wasn’t at court. And with the revelations regarding Tyrion and Sansa’s wedding night, the prince’s ability to stomach out-of-line words had vanished. He’d joined his wife in her unwillingness to allow their children around Tyrion unsupervised, and their interactions were stiff and awkward. Tyrion had the feeling that the prince, or perhaps the queen, was having him watched.

On top of that, Pod’s image of him was shaken.

Tyrion knew he was in no position to get away with antagonizing the Hand’s sister. During his old days in the Red Keep, he’d made too many enemies and not enough allies, and the allies he did make were unreliable at best. Even in those days, it was easier for Tyrion to get away with it for as long as he had because the court and its loyalties were so unstable and fragmented, everyone working against everyone, and he had the power of his position and name to keep him safe before his family disowned him. It was easy to get away with being brazen and irreverent when everything was chaos and you were speaking with the authority of Tywin Lannister. But even that didn’t last. 

Now, it was even more impossible. Being a Lannister counted for far, far less than it once did. Even if it didn’t, Martyn hadn’t exactly given Tyrion any great authority. And these days, he wasn’t dealing with Cersei, who was a mess and had few personal allies, nor was he dealing with a mad boy king who didn’t pay attention to the affairs of the realm. The court was now extremely cohesive, with major figures but few, if any, singular agents. There was an entire network of people who, while having individual ambitions and not being above subterfuge, seemed perfectly pleased to work together for the most part. The alliances were genuine.

Before the library, he was able to get away with making lewd comments to the princess because her husband pitied him. That was over. There was no doubt in his mind that, if he said the wrong word to Margaery, by sundown he’d find himself answering to the crown and shipped back to Casterly Rock in disgrace--- if he was lucky. It could be just as likely that he’d find himself kidnapped, tortured, castrated, and thrown in a pit somewhere to die. Either way, he’d answer for it, and he would regret it.

So despite how difficult he found it, Tyrion had to try and keep his mouth shut. And he had to at least try to pretend to have manners. He sighed, watching the Tyrell charlatan wink at a common girl and wave to some vendors. 

“What she might have done to help House Lannister’s image,” he admitted to his companion begrudgingly, “My family truly threw away an asset.”

“I’m almost glad they did. Lady Tully works for our new queen now, and everyone is better off for it,” said Pod.

 _True enough, everyone save for me._ But making nice with the Tyrells certainly did work to the advantage of the crown. _But then, they know how to work a situation to their advantage. Too bad we couldn’t bother to work them to ours._

 If there was one thing that characterized the Baratheon/Lannister regime, it was waste. Combined, they ended up wasting the longest summer in recent memory, the entire treasury, and a lot of good people. _In a matter of three years they managed to waste two excellent potential queens, nearly all the public goodwill that the Long Summer gave Robert, and scores of excellent advisors._ _But I suppose that’s what happens when the people in power are too rich. They forget the value of things_.

Lady Tully had wanted to come along on this errand--- to an extent. She didn’t dare let herself be seen on the Street of Silk, but she wanted to be out in the city when Tyrion made his first errand.

She had the authority to insist upon it, too. She was, after all, Mistress of Coin and Lady of Riverrun, not to mention sister to the Hand of the Queen and a close friend of the royal family. She didn’t let anyone forget it, either. Tyrion had no official titles of his own. He wasn’t on the council, he held no lands. He was more or less his cousin’s lackey, officially.

Thus Tyrion had to patiently stand by as Margaery Tyrell haggled over some black bear skins and told jokes to the merchant as he wrapped up her purchase. Finally, the Mistress of Coin left the stall and came towards them, pausing to make sure her maidservant secured her purchase and settled herself into her litter. She opened the window of hers, which faced the window of Tyrion’s. Through the gauzy green curtains, Tyrion could see her sunny smile fall.

“So, what do the whores say?”

“As always, whatever we want to hear.” Tyrion held up a stack of papers consisting of the notes he’d taken. “And more, most likely.”

“Let me read them on the way back to the castle.”

Tyrion hesitated, but the look the lady gave him told him he had little choice. _Hopefully she hasn’t read Maester Davello’s Quiet Crypting. Or know Ghiscari._ He’d coded a few things that were written down. Coded them in a way that required a knowledge of the language, which he’d picked up during his years abroad.

“Your handwriting, is it atrocious on purpose?” The only thing he could say for her was that she was no longer pretending to be his admirer.

 _Yes._ “No.” Tyrion held up one of his short-fingered hands. “Pens are not generally built for the likes of me. And the damage to my shoulder only makes my grip even more shaky.”

“No matter, I can give them to my scribe to copy.”

“The inconvenience is my fault. My manservant is literate, with an even hand." 

The two of them stared at one another for several seconds. Margaery smiled then. Her public smile. “Well, we can have them both do the job, then. Your man can make a copy for you, my man can make one for me.”

Tyrion scowled. “Just in case there is any confusion, I should be present to provide any needed explanation. As you say, my hand is poor. Nearly indecipherable. Even the best scribe might have difficulty discerning what I wrote.”

Margaery sighed as their attendants lifted their litters. “Very well.”

Tyrion made a mental note to store his own copy and original in a padlocked box. _This is excruciating._

Margaery did have her uses, though. One of them was her behavior, which served as a good model for the common practices and conduct of the court. She served as an excellent sample. Tyrion was skilled, but those skills were rusty.  Reading between the lines with Margaery allowed him both information, and much-needed practice.

“I can already tell you that the wool and silversmiths won’t provide many new leads,” Margaery informed him, “At least, not the Manderly silversmiths. And some of these come from White Harbor. There isn’t a single decent Northman who would deny funds to the Starks, especially not Baelish funds.”

“What about wool merchants that come from the Rills or Barrowton? Their loyalty is a bit more… questionable.”

He felt a bit of satisfaction upon seeing Margaery’s eyes flicker. It was clear that she hadn’t considered that. “Fair enough. I can get that information for you. If any of them work out, I might be able to get you access to some of the other Littlefinger documents. Or rather, one of my husband’s bannermen can.”

“Oh? Are we making headway in the Vale?” A large amount of Baelish’s old papers were taken and stored away there after the sack of Winterfell. Officially, they were all surrendered to the crown. But that meant little these days. It was an open secret that little odds and ends of his portfolio were floating around the Vale. 

“Yes. The vestiges of the old Houses are eager to do Myranda Royce Mallister a few favors.”

“Of course they are.” Tyrion decided to give her a test. “You definitely have your connections, don’t you?”

Tyrion noted the false modesty with which she shrugged her shoulders. The connection wasn’t entirely of her own making. In fact, it wasn’t at all. Lady Mallister was an old friend of Sansa’s, going back to her days in the Vale. _But she’s willing to take credit for it._ Courtiers were masters of taking credit they didn’t deserve for things they didn’t accomplish. _Nice to see that hasn’t changed._

Some things certainly hadn’t. When Tyrion first arrived at court, there were some lords and ladies that had approached him, eager to speak of his victory at Blackwater and invite him to their tables. Numerous mentions of his rich cousin were made, and his friendship with the Commander of the City Watch. Inquiries were made regarding his relationship with the royal family, and more interest was peaked after he dined with the queen. Tyrion acted wary of each invitation, wanting to get a better read of the situation before he knew which Houses were worth being seen with.

After the incident in the library, things took a tense turn. Soon after they both emerged in court, Tyrion and Prince Jon had crossed one another in a hall near the throne room. Before the incident, the prince had always acknowledged Tyrion with a smile, a nod, often a friendly verbal greeting. But that day, the prince determinedly kept his eyes level, not looking or saying a word to him, tight fists at his side. At that, whispers seemed to erupt.

No one outside a select few actually knew what transpired, but people knew something happened. Even after the meeting in Sansa’s rooms, Jon didn’t acknowledge Tyrion publicly. Some fool from House Swyft was bold enough to inquire about it, and Tyrion laughed it off as the prince being busier than ever with his wife abed. After that he got a curt note from the Targaryen prince not to make any statements or jokes about his wife or beds or anything of the sort. 

Arya Stark’s clear hostility was noted, and a popular rumor was that she’d given Tyrion his newest wounds. Some believed that he’d attacked Princess Naerys, that it was the reason she was rumored to be leaving court in a few moons.

That truly infuriated him. _She attacked me._ The princess had sent him an elegantly-worded note assuring him of her sincerest apologies which Tyrion suspected was written by her mother or a scribe. The handwriting was somewhat different (ever the lady, the princess had handwritten the invitation to tea she’d sent to Tyrion herself) but that didn’t rule out dictation.

The rumors were immensely stupid, of course. Why, after all, would him threatening the princess result in the princess being sent away and him staying at court? He was the cousin of a Lord Paramount. Naerys was second in line to the Iron Throne. But he supposed after years of heroism, it was more comfortable for the masses to go back to believing him a monster.

Ironically enough, his meetings with the Tyrells, tense as they were, ended up proving what kept him from being a total pariah in court. His invitations to dine dried up significantly, but no one was visibly wrinkling their noses and turning away in disgust yet, either.

Luckily, his lowered stock hadn’t reached past the walls of the castle, and he could still ride comfortably in an open litter without fear of flying dung or shouts of “Demon monkey!” But he wondered how long he’d have to enjoy that luxury.

Everyone seemed as unsure of Tyrion’s status as he was. His stock had certainly dropped, and it couldn’t afford to drop much lower. But just how far he was from getting his throat slit still remained to be seen. _The prince might be planning on me having an ‘accident’ a few moons down the road at this very moment._ _All the more reason I have to watch my step and make sure I succeed,_ he thought grimly as he eyed the gates of the Red Keep, growing ever closer, _in both of my endeavors_. 

He glanced at Margaery Tyrell. He was certainly in no position to deal with that situation. _But if I play my cards well enough… That could happen eventually._

Until then, though, he needed to keep his mind on the tasks at hand and keep observing as much as possible.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Jon:

 

“He visited three brothels today, my prince. He questioned the owners of all three. Two of which were once owned by Littlefinger.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing down on the reports that the Master of Whispers had handed him. Tracking a man across the Street of Silk did not appeal to him. But the recent revelations about the man in question made him feel compelled to do it. He looked up at Drystane Waters, stoic and wan in dark robes, and cleared his throat. “Why would he go to a brothel not owned by Petyr Baelish?” 

“The owner, Chataya, owns one of the few brothels that Littlefinger didn’t keep. She wasn’t a stranger to subterfuge, and kept tabs on various things in order to keep herself afloat against the competition. The owner has informed the Master of Whispers for years, and has been quite forthright. He came and asked her what she has heard--- she wouldn’t have the same loyalties or strings attached to her that former Littlefinger employees would have, so she’s more likely to share all she knows. She says he also spent an hour with one of her girls.”

The prince grimaced. “No reports of trouble?” He asked. These days reports were made when a patron of a pillow house hurt one of the whores. But things slipped through the cracks, especially if the patron in question had enough coin.

“No. And Chataya is not the sort who would hide it. There is a transcript of their conversation enclosed.”

“Do you plan on showing copies of these documents to our Lord Hand or Lady Tully?”

“Lady Tully, yes. If she shows it to her brother, that is none of my concern.”

Jon nodded. Drystane could be disarmingly honest sometimes for a man who dealt in secrets. Still, he couldn’t blame Margaery. They had given her this project to work on with Tyrion, and it wasn’t like the Lady of the Riverlands could just march into a brothel. “And Lady Tully’s activities?”

“She followed up with a number of market vendors and shopkeepers. I can provide you a list, if you wish. She made more stops than Lord Tyrion today.”

“I don’t need a list.” Jon didn’t distrust Margaery to the same degree. “Let me know if anything suspicious comes up, but if not, don’t bother.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“And the dragon eggs?” Jon wasn’t sure about Tyrion’s efforts to help Daenerys hatch them. 

Lord Drystane pursed his lips. “That’s… coming along.”

Jon pretended to dismiss this, forcing himself not to narrow his eyes. _Too vague._ He took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Lord Waters. I seek a private audience with the queen. You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find her, would you?”

The Master of Whispers quirked one eyebrow. “Last I heard she was crafting edicts in her study with Lady Naathia. But I cannot be sure. I do not track Her Grace’s every move.”

 _I’m sure you’d never._ “Thank you.” He was about to say something else, but then thought better of it. _A different plan might be in order._ So he dismissed Waters and had word sent to Sansa that he wanted to speak to them privately.

Jon pulled out a chair for is wife before she arrived, carefully helped her into it once she came in. He asked after her health, looking at her warily. His wife looked healthier, but that could change at any minute. She was heavy now, so very heavy with child.

“I’m fine, Jon,” his wife assured him, “What can I do for you?

The prince sat and folded his hands in his lap. “There’s something serious I wanted to discuss with you.”

Jon’s expressions tended to be subtle, and he’d kept his tone light sounding for any potential eavesdroppers. The thing he had to discuss could be something as simple and flippant as their dinner arrangements for the week. But Sansa could read him. Her face darkened with concern and she got closer. “Alright.”

Jon took a deep breath and lowered. “You know that Tyrion is planning on helping Daenerys find a way to hatch the dragon eggs.”

She nodded.

“And how do you feel about that?” 

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Is this another question about Tyrion? I told you, Jon, I don’t want him banished from court.”

The prince shook his head. “No, not entirely.” Tyrion did have something to do with it, but it wasn’t in a way related to Sansa. From the moment Tyrion returned, there was something… unsettling about him, aside from the obvious. Something Jon felt he wasn’t seeing. After the revelations in the library, he’d guessed that maybe the uncovered history was what he’d been sensing all along. But even now, something tugged at him. He couldn’t quite describe it.

Over the years, Jon had seen too many broken people to count. There was more to how Tyrion had changed than his inner demons, his injuries, his fury. There was more than the history that had come to light. There was something else about Tyrion that Jon was feeling. And for whatever reason, that feeling had grown stronger when they’d returned to the capital, even before the library incident. The odd thing was, Jon had the feeling that Dany, whether she realized it or not, was picking up on it as well. He sighed.

“This is about the dragon eggs. It’s… it’s something that has been in the back of my mind for a while. But… I’m not sure that they should be hatched.”

Her mouth fell open. “Those eggs were laid twelve years ago. You’ve never spoken about this before.”

Jon flinched somewhat. He’d considered this himself, trying to go over the reasons in his head, beyond his gut feeling, that this was only now a thing he felt the need to bring up. “When we found out that Rhaegal was carrying, we were caught up in a number of things. I had just gotten back from the Iron Islands, there was the business with the Faith, you were with child. Then Naerys was born. After that was the progress in Essos, then Robb came. And for a while, my misgivings were not too strong. I think after a few years, I didn’t imagine they would ever hatch. But for some reason, Tyrion’s return has me considering it. Daenerys has been trying for years, and she was always pretty open with me about her efforts with Willas, but lately news about the eggs has been limited. And frankly, a lot of odd things have been happening. Tyrion returning. And Arya… Did she tell you why she came? She says Nymeria just started trying to head south one day. Our sister had to skinchange into her to bring her back. Nymeria ended up practically dragging her down here. Ghost has been acting odd too.”

Sansa nodded. “He’s right outside. He followed me here. He spends even more time by my bedside than he did when I was poisoned.” 

“Exactly. Rhaegal’s been a bit more agitated when I’ve brought her out as well. Those animals are more than pets, more than mere animals. They’re special. Magic. Connected to us. And Tyrion… You know he’s intelligent. And I know Willas is. But Tyrion… He used to dream of dragons. He told me once. And his dreams were a lot like the ones Daenerys has had. Ones I’ve had.”

“What? You think he secretly has the blood of Old Valyria?” Sansa snorted.

Jon shook his head. “No. But I think there is something about him. I think it’s odd that he survived as long as he did. And that he showed up now. At the same time that Nymeria drags Arya down the Kingsroad and you’re carrying our last child.”

Her blue eyes flickered. The fact that this would be their final child wasn’t something they’d discussed openly. It was more of a silent agreement. While Sansa once made firm statements about the amount of children they’d have, she’d grown quieter about it over the years. After the twins were born, there had been rumors of her losing her fertility. It bothered her more than she liked to admit. Sansa didn’t like being perceived as a failure. But the fact that there had been an eight year gap in between births didn’t help. They’d planned to have their third and fourth children three and six years after they had Robb, and not counted on twins.

But she didn’t like speaking of it openly. Jon guessed that she feared someone overhearing. A valid concern, given the nature of their home. Some things had gotten better. And they'd worked hard to keep people on their side. But there would always be enough people scheming, looking for things to work to their advantage.

“Well, that’s not certain, but---“ She held up a hand when he opened his mouth, “---I have to admit the circumstances are… interesting. I don’t know how long dragon eggs generally take to hatch, though. The queen’s dragons were a miracle, but that was after them being dead for two centuries. Those eggs were practically stone. I don’t recall the stories from the age of dragons saying special magic was needed to hatch them before they went extinct, do you?”

Jon shook his head. “But when Rhaegal laid her eggs, Daenerys executed the High Sparrow at the same time. She did something similar when the original eggs hatched. You were with child then as well. And about to give birth.”

“I’ve birthed three children since then,” Sansa pointed out, “No eggs were hatched or laid then. And it isn’t as if I’m connected to dragons the way you and Daenerys are.”

Jon snorted. “You’re not Valyrian yourself, true, but you’re hardly unconnected. You have had four of my children, four children who bond with the dragons. And when you’re carrying one of my babes, you literally have the blood of Valyria inside you. Our children are Targaryens. And it’s not as you yourself don’t have a special quality to you.” 

Her mouth twisted. “I’m not a warg like the rest of you, Jon. And even if I was, that’s First Men magic, not Valyrian.” 

“Nevertheless, you have a special bond with other creatures, even if you haven’t managed to skinchange yet.” Jon winced. He shouldn’t have brought that up. It was a sore spot with his wife. She’d tried over the years to skinchange and found no success. Jon believed her gift was there, but stunted and perhaps altered when she lost Lady. He had observed her sleep before, and noted sometimes that she moved and twitched like a wolf, she spoke sometimes of dreaming of Lady, of being Lady. She bonded absurdly well with animals: she’d become brilliant at falconry over the years, better even than Willas Tyrell despite not having put in nearly the same amount of practice. Willas literally bred hunting birds and had done so for decades. Yet on a hunt, no one’s falcons brought in more game than Sansa’s. She bonded eerily well with the other direwolves, especially Ghost. She was one of the only people aside from Arya whom Nymeria obeyed. Ghost followed her around constantly, obeyed her every word, and absolutely loved her. 

On top of that, she could always look at an animal and tell when someone was in there, and who they were. Whenever Jon encountered Sansa while inside Ghost’s head, she could tell it was him. The same thing with Arya. The animal didn’t even have to be Nymeria. She could look at a cat or a fox or a mouse and know their sister was inside. Jon and Arya could occasionally guess when the other was inside their wolf, but that was usually based on behavior. Jon couldn’t tell Arya was in there when looking at other animals. There was even one time when they hosted some Free Folk at Winterfell, and Sansa politely walked up to one of the women and informed her that she knew the woman was a warg and that she’d prefer it if she restricted herself to inhabiting her own animals. The wildling woman sputtered an apology. Apparently Sansa had felt a presence in one of the dogs in their kennels. When Jon asked how she knew which person it was, she shrugged. “I don’t know, I just had a feeling it was her and observed her behavior. She spends a lot of time with her own dog, after all.”

Jon hadn’t sensed it. Arya hadn’t. Sansa had. And she’d been right. Naerys and Ravella could do it sometimes, but not with the same accuracy, and only with their parents.

He sighed. “Regardless, you have the same blood as Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Robb. And well, Naerys was our first child, and this one--- might be another girl.”

With the boys, like magic, she got sick at the smell of leather. With this one, she sometimes got sick at the smell of venison, but not leather.

She paused to smile for a second. After three boys, they were hoping for another daughter.

 “Why should the girls hold a special magic and not the boys? Aemon even has all the Targaryen traits--- Silver hair, purple eyes. And the boys bond with the dragons 

Jon shrugged. He thought it had more to do with being first and the likely last, honestly. “Well, it was a woman who resurrected the dragons, a woman who nursed Rhaegal through laying the eggs, a woman who was the first dragon rider in centuries, a woman is Azor Ahai Reborn and the Prince that was Promised. But I’m not saying it’s definite but--- Sansa, there is something odd going on. Something magical.” 

 _I sound like a child._ But Jon was a dragon rider and a warg. He had died and been brought back to life with the magic of a Red Witch. He had faced down an army of the undead, ice spiders, giants, White Walkers, and the Night’s King himself. He had a brother who was a greenseer and avatar for the Old Gods, an aunt who had brought dragons back from the dead and couldn’t burn, a sister who was a warg (and was a former Faceless Man), and four children who could bond with dragons. While he hadn’t studied sorcery in the Citadel, he knew magic. He’d been exposed to basically every sort of it from the fire magic of Asshai to the dragon power of Old Valyria to the mysticism of the First Men.  He’d even touched Old Nagga’s bones. He could sense it. 

His wife shifted uncomfortably. That was when Jon realized it. “You know it too. You’ve sensed it.”

Sansa looked at her lap. “Of course Tyrion’s sudden reappearance is odd, and yes, I’ll admit the thing with Nymeria and Arya is… questionable. But that doesn’t necessarily mean the eggs are going to hatch.” 

 _She’s in denial._ Jon didn’t know whether to find that troubling or comforting. On one hand, he wanted to get to the point and stop arguing. And he also hated it when she repressed herself. On the other, it indicated that her feelings about this mirrored his own.

“Let’s say it did. How would you feel about the eggs being hatched?”

Her whole demeanor changed then. “Well, it’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? For the continuation of the crown’s power?” She began to fan herself. “You know, I’m feeling a bit stifled in here. How about we take Ghost for a walk in the godswood?”

That was as much an answer as any. But he still wanted to hear her speak openly. So he summoned his wolf and helped his wife out of her chair. The two of them fetched a blanket and cushion from their rooms and spoke of Naerys’ departure to the Dreadfort until they were deep into the woods and near the base of the heart tree. Jon set the blanket down near the roots and they both sat, Sansa using the using the cushion for her back as she leaned against the trunk of the tree. Jon sat at her feet, removed her slippers, and began rubbing her swollen ankles. Her eyes fluttered closed. She uttered a soft groan, uttered thanks, then spoke.

“To be honest, Jon, I think I felt similarly. I was thrilled about the dragons for a while, you know? You and Daenerys riding them. You used them to defeat the Night’s King. They help you keep the peace. And perhaps I would have thought more about it when the eggs arrived, but, like you said, we were having our first babe together, and the issues with the Faith, and Nymeria, and then Essos and Robb. I don’t think I’ve given it quite as much thought. I think part of me believed, as you did, that they’d never hatch after two years. But I didn’t think on it too much. And Daenerys wants it so much, and so many good things have been accomplished with them…” 

“…But?”

She opened her eyes. “I’ll admit, I do get nervous. I think I’ve tried to put those thoughts aside, because of Daenerys, because of how the War of the Dawn was won, because those dragons protect my children, because of Naerys. But as time has gone by… Even though I know the children and the dragons bond, I get so nervous watching them. And sometimes, all I can think about is, what comes after? After us? After Daenerys? Even after Naerys?”

 “Exactly. Aegon the Conqueror’s heirs were Aenys and Maegor the Cruel. Naerys is no Maegor or Aenys, but her children, or even grandchildren…”

Sansa shook her head then. “But we’re being ridiculous. Since Daenerys took the throne, peace has reigned. And we can hardly pretend that war and tyranny came to Westeros with the dragons and left after they died out. The wars with the Children of the Forest, the First Men and the Andals, the tyranny of the Ironborn over the Riverlands, the conflicts in the North between the Starks and Boltons alone. And after the dragons died out we had Aegon the Unworthy, Aerys the Mad, the Blackfyre Rebellions, the war of the Ninepenny Kings, the war of the Five Kings… Westeros was enveloped in war and corruption before Daenerys came. Since then, the realms are at peace and more unified than ever, we’ve recovered, no rebellions or conflict. The smallfolk are better off than they ever were, and we haven’t even had the long summer that Robert Baratheon enjoyed. We’ve made peace with the Free Folk. We ended slavery in three cities. There’s an empire now. And we don’t even use slaves. Even the old Valyrian Empire was built on the backs of slaves. How much of that could have built without dragons?”

“It can be destroyed by dragons as well, though,” Jon replied grimly, “Even Dany once said that ‘Dragons don’t plant trees.’ With all that was supposedly built by House Targaryen and their dragons… The Dance of the Dragons nearly destroyed all of that. It probably would have with a second Dance if they hadn’t died out. Imagine the Blackfyre Rebellion with those things alive. Dragons in the hands of Aegon IV or Aerys the Mad. Yes, horrifying war has come before and since. Yes, Daenerys and I were able to put that down with the threat of dragonfire. But they’re not generally peace-keeping beasts, especially in the wrong hands. Daenerys had to use blood magic to maintain her full control of them. But what happens after she’s gone? How easily controlled will they be? And what if a dragonlord three generations down the line is a lunatic? Tyranny is so easily created when one group has that sort of absolute power.”

Sansa paused to rub her temple. “You think our line would produce such tyrants?”

“We’re not going to be around forever. The line of Jaehaerys the Wise eventually produced Aegon the Unworthy.”

“The dragons we have now are going to be around when we’re gone.”

“Yes, but not forever. And as we stand now, there are more Targaryens than dragons, and even with their life spans, we’ve raised good children. Good future leaders. But do we have any way of controlling what their grandchildren will be like?” 

“No, Jon. No we don’t. Aside from hoping that we’ve raised our children right, and that they, their children, and their children’s children will do the same.” Sansa put her face in her hands. “Jon, to be honest… I hate thinking about those things. They used to be such a symbol of hope but now…”

“…I know.” He did. He knew exactly what she meant. When the new regime was freshly established and the war was won, the dragons were security, hope, excitement. They were power. But the longer Jon had power, the more he worried about what that power meant. What had once been miraculous and uplifting now instilled fear.

The worst part was Daenerys. They were her children. She loved them and wanted new dragons so, so badly. Jon couldn’t imagine she’d take such concerns well. _How is one supposed to tell the queen that she’s birthed monsters?_

“Have you spoken to Daenerys?”

Jon shook his head. “To be honest, though, I think she suspects I have reservations. She’s been unusually secretive about this lately.” 

“That’s… That’s not good.”

“I know.” Jon winced. Daenerys wasn’t prone to the sort of mad paranoia her father was known for, but even her father had a lucid period. The three of them always trusted one another. “I want to confront her about it. But I wanted to discuss it with you and get your support. And, possibly, Willas’.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Willas has been researching this with the queen for years, Jon.”

“Yes, meaning that if he were to support us, Daenerys might be even more inclined to listen.” 

His wife groaned. “We can’t gang up on her. Especially since we’ve not said anything for so long.”

She had a point. But Jon feared that his last confrontation with his aunt would sour this. Willas was a third party, and he knew almost as much about the dragons as Daenerys. “Fine, but we need to speak to her. You agree, right?”

“That we shouldn’t hatch the eggs?”

“Yes.” 

“I… I think that it might not be the most prudent thing to do it now, at the very least. But Jon… I’m not sure I can stomach a conflict with Daenerys.”

Jon felt like he was sinking into a pool of guilt. He eyed her stomach warily. “I’m sorry. I just… If I’m right, those things could hatch before you give birth. You don’t have to confront Daenerys with me. If you like, I won’t even mention you. But I wanted to know that I’m not insane.” 

“You’re not insane, Jon. I agree with you. But…” 

“…But?” 

“Don’t be afraid to compromise.” She closed her eyes and held up a hand when Jon opened his mouth to protest. “--I know, you’ve never exactly been afraid of that before, but I would feel I’d neglected my duty to you if I didn’t remind you.” She groaned, then opened her eyes again, weary, “I definitely think hatching all six eggs now would be a terrible idea. But Daenerys has been working on this for years, and we don’t know if we might need new dragons in the near future. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion were the foundation for this government. We can’t just abandon it all. If Daenerys is determined to have new dragons, it might work better to convince her to just hatch one or two eggs. After all, it’s possible that those eggs could hatch eventually regardless of what we do. And it can’t hurt to know how the magic that would go into making the eggs hatch truly works.” 

Jon nodded. That had occurred to him too. His mind went back to his days at the Wall, keeping and observing the wights to try and learn as much about them before the army arrived. As wary as he was about the beasts, they needed to know as much as they could about them. This very issue was one that gave him the most doubts. 

Whomever had arranged the miracle that hatched Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion all those years ago knew one way. And all those involved were likely either dead or unable to uncover. Efforts to find Varys again had been made for years, proving fruitless. Even Daenerys at the time acted greatly on instinct and wasn’t entirely sure how she succeeded. But whomever did know likely wasn’t the sort of person they wanted being the sole keeper of that knowledge. There were people all over the world rumored to have Targaryen or Valyrian blood. Varys had conjured an “Aegon” seemingly out of thin air.

 _How many potential new dragonlords are out there?_ He wondered, his stomach turning. But at the same time, there was something about Tyrion’s arrival that didn’t sit right with him. Something was different. And the potential of it wasn’t necessarily good.

Jon hadn’t saved the world just to produce the line that would destroy it. He thought about the clutch of eggs Rhaegal had laid a dozen years ago, and found his stomach in knots.

He was about to say more when Ghost padded over, indicating someone was approaching. Brienne appeared. “My apologies, Your Graces. But the queen wishes to see the princess.”

 

~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Sansa:

 

“I’m so sorry. I nearly killed you. I’m so, so sorry.”

It wasn’t often that Sansa saw the Mother of Dragons so… humbled. It wasn’t that Daenerys never admitted mistakes--- she did it behind closed doors, with a select group of people. But even when she did that, she put on a strong exterior, didn’t focus on guilt, and focused on creating a solution. Daenerys was always, always pushing forward. Sansa couldn’t blame her for it. She had a similar approach to things, as did Jon. They were all thrust into wars at a tender age, fighting for survival. It did not do well to dwell on the past. Daenerys, though, was even more forward-moving than Sansa or Jon. When she bungled something, her approach was “Oh, I erred. How do we fix it?” Sansa didn't fault her for it--- when's one's decisions both good and bad had such far reaching effects, one didn't have much time to dwell on guilt.

She was an unending force of personality who seemed to have a special confidence that made sense. Daenerys had pulled herself from begging on the streets of Pentos to ruling an empire. She had help, yes. She had a name to use, she had the miracle of her dragons. But she’d never have accomplished anything close to what she’d gained if she hadn’t been strong, brave, and intelligent. She’d made nearly catastrophic mistakes and came back from them. But she addressed her errors in a sharply analytical way, with some sheepish embarrassment sometimes. But then she focused on the solution.

Now she tried not to weep. 

They were in Daenerys’s solar, sitting down for lunch in a manner not entirely unlike a meal they had over a dozen years ago. At that time, Sansa remembered, she’d wondered where she’d live and apologized for being tired. Her queen was a distant, intimidating, foreign figure who almost made her feel like her trial hadn’t really ended. I spilled wine on Arianne Martell’s dress, Sansa remembered. And I was made Jon’s ward. It had been humiliating.

Daenerys was a small woman, but she stood over a sitting Sansa now, clasping their hands together, tears gathering in her violet eyes. Sansa had only seen Daenerys cry a couple of times. When she and Jon lost their babes, she’d wept. The night Jon had his breakdown in the Dragon Pit, Daenerys fought back a couple of tears (successfully). But she just wasn’t prone to them.

 Sansa took a deep breath and tried to navigate the situation as best she could. “You were new to Westeros. You didn’t know the full situation. I don’t---“

“You told your story the very first day. I should have stopped this trial and declared it as the farce it was then. Jon came to me and said as much. I brushed him off, lectured him as if I had any idea of what I was talking about.”

After all these years, the Lady of Winterfell had heard a fair share of apologies. Many of them were insincere--- she had children. If she had a silver star for every time one of her children sarcastically apologized for teasing one of their siblings when forced to, she’d be able to fill the treasury. Then there were the courtiers who had been around during her captivity in the Red Keep. Members of various houses apologizing for not stepping in when Joffrey beat her. For not helping her or reaching out to her. She knew that if they went back, they’d do it again. They weren’t sorry about that. They were sorry that the abused girl they’d laughed at and shunned ended up becoming powerful. There were some of those among the people who were around during her Littlefinger period, too. “If I had known…” many of them said. Sansa doubted a number of them.

There were sincere apologies, of course. Especially among the Littlefinger set. A number of Valemen, Northmen, and Rivermen seemed truly repentant.But a lot of times, apologies came from people who were not responsible for the things they were apologizing for. Martyn Lannister was one. He offered plenty of remorse for the actions adult members of his family had committed when he was nothing but a powerless boy. Arya, of all people, often apologized for not protecting her and Eddie.

There tended to be more regret expressed by people who had allowed things to happen than the people who actually did those things. It wasn’t surprising: a lot of the monsters were dead now. And even if they were alive, the Joffrey Baratheons, Cersei and Tywin Lannisters, and Petyr Baelishs of the world were not the sort to apologize for anything. That was what made them so terrifying. 

Sansa wasn’t interested in hearing apologies for the rest of her life. It always brought her back to things she didn’t want to think about. Her mind made her revisit those things enough without others contributing. She’d worked so hard to build a new, better life. Being tied to her old one didn’t help her. It was why she’d only had the one supervised meeting with Tyrion. She didn’t want to hear him apologize to her about that night. His presence was enough of a reminder.

Yet, there was something about this one which touched her. Or perhaps her heart was feeling softer due to guilt over the conversation she’d just had with Jon. Most apologies tended to be about the person giving them than the person receiving them. But this… To see such a proud person cry for her… That was something. Daenerys had made mistakes that had cost lives before- it came with the territory of being a ruler from a young age. But Sansa doubted they got tears. Or personal expressions of remorse.

“You didn’t have any idea. But you tried to fix that.” Sansa sighed and pressed Daenerys’ hands to her cheek. “You have. I forgave you long ago.”

“It was stupid. How were any of my bannermen going to support me if I let some minor nobles from the Vale execute a Lord Paramount on circumstantial evidence? Especially after how much you’d clearly been abused? I thought I was being strong and diplomatic. I looked like a clueless bully kicking a wounded puppy.”

 _I was not a puppy. And I know what true bullies looked like._ Though the clueless and wounded parts Sansa wasn’t going to entirely object to. But over the years, they’d helped one another remedy those things to fair extents. “You let me speak. That’s far more than many people on trial have gotten over the years.”

Daenerys sighed. “That still doesn’t justify what happened. And I should have said sorry years ago.”

Sansa pulled her hands away and looked up at her. “Are you determined to be angry with yourself?”

“I have to pay for this somehow.”

“You were not the only person involved in what happened, Dany. And you are far from being the one most at fault.”

“I know… I’m sorry. We’re talking about me. This is about you. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you? I could send Lord Tyrion away.”

Sansa paused at that. After what she and her husband had just discussed, it seemed a more tempting option than ever. _But if I say yes now, and Jon goes to her about the eggs, how will it look?_ Her husband had raised more than a few fair points, but Sansa still had misgivings. _What are we going to do, live in ignorance about the dragons and what brought them to life forever?_

It was an odd moment. Suddenly Sansa felt almost as if the future was resting upon her answer. She looked into the queen’s eyes. They were unsure, concerned, loving but also… there was a glimmer there. _She’s hoping I’ll say no._

Whatever Jon sensed about Tyrion’s arrival, it seemed Daenerys sensed it as well. Sansa swallowed. Her belly felt heavier than ever. Her back ached like sin.

“Let me… Let me think on it, alright?” She said finally. The memory of that meal with the Yunkish peppered duck and the spilled wine returned to her head once more. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I’m exhausted.” 

Daenerys jumped to help her to the door. “Of course. Rest. We can… we can talk later.”


	14. Direwolves, Dragons, and Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has very different evening activities with two of the most important women in his life. Dany has some points to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize to everyone about how long this has taken--- Good news! The next chapter will be posted soon!
> 
> As some of you may know, there IS a reason that I've taken so long: My new website, fandomfollowing.com. I'm partnered with some great writers and we write meta! So enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to bbanzaiz for her beta work. However, thanks to our respective workloads, I do need to find a new beta. So if anyone is interested, please message me on tumblr!

Chapter Fourteen: Direwolves, Dragons, and Dwarves

Daenerys:

 _Thank the gods the other Starks are here,_ Daenerys Targaryen thought for perhaps the first time in years. More properly, Arya Stark’s family were the Stark-Umbers, at least in name, and normally Daenerys didn’t enjoy looking at young Ravella and feeling the underlying discomfort of knowing the child’s true origin. Despite the knowledge of the child’s innocence and her certainty of Stark loyalty, she just couldn’t be too comfortable hosting a high-born descendent of Robert Baratheon. Ser Gendry had been one thing, but he was not only a bastard, but the bastard son of a common woman. He didn’t even get to call himself “Waters” until after the war. But his daughter had a mother of the highest birth and Northerners could be unpredictable. Dany loathed to feel such worry over a little child, but it was ever present.

But tonight, she managed not to focus too much on that. Partly thanks to the amount of tension between her and her regular loved ones. Sansa had graciously accepted her apology, and it had been acknowledged by Jon and Naerys. But while things were softening a bit between Dany and Naerys, there was still an odd discomfort between her and Jon.

Thus, the presence of the ever-animated Lady Arya and her absurdly boisterous husband, Jannell Umber, was a welcome diversion. Though they were as different looking as night and day, Lady Arya’s husband reminded Dany of Strong Belwas, not to mention many of the riders she’d known.

“You’d fit in well among the Dothraki, my lord,” Daenerys informed the man as he downed half a tankard of ale to whet his lips in the middle of a long, drawn out story about wrestling with Nymeria’s wolf pack.

Jannell wiped his mouth, raised what was left of his cup in salute, and grinned. “Thank you, Your Grace. I fancy I would. I’m even better with horses than I am with wolves. I used to race with Domeric Bolton and the Dustin boys back in my youth--- this was back in Ned Stark’s day, when I fostered with Lady Dustin. With wolves, you need to stare them down and bite them in the ear. Horses are another sort altogether. Even the friskiest ones can be ridden. I wouldn’t mind riding and wrestling with some khalasaar though. Gods, that would be the life.”

 _It could be sometimes,_ Daenerys thought wistfully. “I imagine the only thing that might stand in your way is the heat,” she teased.

“Keep my tankard full of this!” Jannell raised his cup, “And I can take any heat. To be honest, I might enjoy it. It’s not always easy, being weighed down by furs. I’m a very, very hairy man on my own. I’ve already got fur. But the Northern chill is what it is. The people of the North are tough, we can withstand anything. My Uncle Greatjon could swallow barrels of ale and still need a crowd of men to subdue him.”

“Tell me more about your relatives. They sound like colorful people.”

Lady Arya snorted into her own cup. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Aye, and I’m not sure where to start!”

The meal went surprisingly well, with Jannell and Ravella at one point getting up to reenact some of his family’s misadventures. But once their desert of honeyed pastries was consumed and the children began to yawn, the children, Lady Arya, Lord Jannell, and Sansa departed, Jon asked to have a private word.

Despite her merriment, the Dragon Queen felt her stomach sink when she heard this. _He’s going to ask me to send Tyrion Lannister away._ She’d offered to do this as a way of making things up to her good-niece, but had hoped Sansa would say no. Daenerys couldn’t help it. She kept dreaming of newly hatched dragons, and she felt _something_ that made her feel like they were about to make a breakthrough, and Tyrion was at the center of it. Sansa had said she’d think about it. Dany intended to make good on her promise, but doing so would be a disappointment.

 _I could send him to the Citadel or Dragonstone,_ she thought as she led her nephew to her solar. They took seats at the small table by the window overlooking the lemon orchard and poured themselves fresh cups of Arbor Gold. The air was as sweet as the wine, and the garden outside was awash in moonlight, yet Daenerys felt a slight chill. For several awkward seconds, they merely sipped their wine in silence until Dany could no longer take it.

“I can deliver the orders first thing in the morning,” she informed him with a sigh.

“Orders? For what?”

“Lannister’s removal from court. Isn’t that what this is about?”

Jon’s face was solemn as it usually was, but he hesitated for a moment.

“Not exactly,” replied Jon, running his fingers through his hair. “It has to do with Tyrion, but it’s not about removing him from court necessarily.”

Dany’s eyes widened. “Then what?”

“It’s about the dragon eggs. And the issue of hatching them.”

“What about them?” Daenerys asked, perplexed. “We may be making some progress, if Lannister can track down the right texts. We may not even have to use blood magic.”

Another pause. “Regardless, are we sure hatching them all at once is a good idea? Controlling the three we have now has not exactly been the easiest process. Another eight?”

“Hatchlings. And when Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion hatched, I hadn’t yet made the final sacrifices, I was permanently unburnt.” Daenerys swallowed heavily, remembering the day she’d become a full dragonrider: a day full of as much tragedy as triumph. _Much like when my children hatched._

For that to happen, she’d had to put Drogo to rest permanently, had to kill, lost Rhaego, and walked into the flames as the witch Mirri Maz Duur screamed. To gain full control of her children, she’d had to give up her chances of having children of her own womb, entrust the continuation of House Targaryen to a near-stranger, and know her line would not be the one that held the Iron Throne after her death.

But these eggs… She’d not sacrificed much. She’d killed the High Sparrow during Rhaegal’s labor, but that was as bitter a “sacrifice” as the witch who betrayed her. Spring had arrived at the time. The next generation of House Targaryen was about to be born. She’d found and built a family. Stabilized the realm. Regained her family’s legacy.

It was so very, very different.

Jon swallowed. “You won’t live forever, and my control of the dragons is not what yours is. I don’t think Naerys’s is, either. And even if future Targaryens can control the dragons, we don’t know---“

“—What?” Her heart sank.

“---We don’t know what they’ll be like. Dragons live a long time. What if my grandchildren turn out…. Wrong?”

“You mean like my father?” Daenerys asked, stung. She knew the answer. _Exactly like my father. Only instead of a city full of wildfire, dragons of his own. Another Mad King. Or Queen. Or another Dance._

She found herself clutching the edge of the table. She didn’t like this. At all. Back in Meereen, she was able to silence Barristan when he told her things that hurt to hear. But she couldn’t silence all of Westeros. _I am the Mad King’s Daughter._

For a while, Daenerys attempted to convince herself that it was all lies and exaggerations, propagated by the Usurper’s forces to solidify his reign. It had once been so easy: it was the evil, child-killing usurper and his dogs, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully. Her father was a great man, and her brother Rhaegar was poised to be a greater king still. The Usurper just stole things out of ambition and jealousy.

Then word got to her about the “Mad King.” Even Barristan seemed to have little good to say about her father. Then she came to Westeros, and Ned Stark and Jon Arryn were long-mourned, honorable men with sterling reputations among their former subjects. And the whole city of King’s Landing nearly burned to the ground thanks to the Wildfire planted by her father. And even her beloved, well-remembered, heroic brother Rhaegar was whispered to have been plotting to take control of the kingdom from his father.

Viserys’s stories rang more and more false, and why shouldn’t they? Viserys was a mad fool. _A mad fool like our father,_ Daenerys thought, her stomach flipping. _A mad fool like Aegon the Unworthy. Mad like Maegor the Cruel. Stupid like Baelor the Befuddled. Dragons don’t plant trees._

Even Rhaegar’s own son seemed to have issues with this. Jon didn’t enjoy celebrating Rhaegar’s memory as much as Daenerys did. He tried to hide it, but she knew. _He was raised to believe Rhaegar raped Lyanna Stark._ Daenerys didn’t believe that, but there was no way to know for sure. _Either way, my brother humiliated and abandoned his wife and children. Elia Martell. One of many Martell casualties in the name of the Targaryens._ Daenerys remembered Prince Quentyn, that horrible death. _The poor Prince Frog._ She’d not witnessed it herself, but they said his eyes boiled and ruptured in his skull, that he lingered for days in agony before he finally died.

 _My children. They are my children._ Daenerys took a long sip of wine. _And my ancestors were Aerys the Mad and Maegor the Cruel._

Anger hit her. “What about your wolves?” She snapped.

“What?”

“Let’s say Ghost sired a litter on Nymeria, would you kill the pups?” She asked. “Or some more wolves came down from beyond the Wall and started breeding. You think I don’t know about your… abilities? Before she was reunited with Arya, Nymeria terrorized the Riverlands. And the middle brother, Bran---“

Jon’s eyes flashed. “Careful, Dany---“

“---No. I am allowed to say my piece. Do you even know what Bran Stark is? He was summoned to the far North, joined to a tree, given all manner of abilities right when the Others returned.---“

“He helped us destroy them, or don’t you remember?”

 _As if I could forget._ Daenerys had met Bran Stark, in a fashion. When she closed her eyes, she could still remember it. She’d struggled desperately with Jon and Stannis Baratheon to battle the Others. They kept attempting to ride her children into battle, but only Dany could manage even the slightest level of control, and even then, Drogon fought her. The situation grew so desperate that Stannis’s Red Witch attempted to burn Shireen Baratheon to death as a sacrifice to her fire god to sway the tide of battle. Stannis, Dany, and Jon intervened, and it ended up being Melisandre who died by dragonfire instead, but not before the poor girl became even more scarred.

Daenerys had been spared the sight of Quentyn Martell. But she’d been forced to see Shireen Baratheon’s flesh: cracked, leaking, bleeding. She’d heard the girl’s screams.

When she’d first ventured to the Wall, she and Stannis very reluctantly resolved to put conflicts regarding the throne and past history aside to face the ongoing struggle. And even then, they probably never would have managed to achieve that uneasy agreement without Jon. Stannis was part Targaryen, and while his bond with the dragons didn’t appear as strong as Jon’s, he could approach the creatures without being burnt and pull himself astride Viserion’s neck.

Not that it ended up mattering much, as Viserion fought him at every turn. The battlefields were a mess, and all they seemed ready to accomplish was burning down what fortifications they had.

Up until her execution, Melisandre had promised to find the magic to increase their bond with the dragons. And they were willing to give her chance. Her god, after all, was a fire god. Only Jon refused to trust her. But when she’d tried to sacrifice Shireen, that was the end.

And so, Daenerys tried going the opposite route. Humbled, she had Jon bring her to the nearby godswood. And it was there that the face in the tree changed to that of a young boy, and she heard a voice.

Jon heard it too. He’d wept and called out Bran Stark’s name.

The young man--- if that even was what he was anymore--- gave them all sorts of information about the Others. Things that no one else knew. And he told Daenerys only she could make the sacrifice to seize control of her children and lead them to victory. She’d balked at first, sure there had to be another way. But Bran sent her visions: visions both horrifying and triumphant. Visions of what would happen if she did make the sacrifice, and what would happen if she didn’t.

To this day, Daenerys didn’t fully trust the greenseer. There were no apparent alternatives at the time, and the sacrifice demanded of her had done what he’d promised, but to this day Daenerys was uneasy about it all. She didn’t like how Bran Stark was able to get into her head, she was suspicious of how much he knew. Despite the miracles she’d witnessed, she had issues with magic.

And, though she’d gotten the desired result, Daenerys still had doubts. To this day, she wondered if perhaps there might have been another way. Another way that might have allowed her to continue the Targaryen line herself.

Daenerys loved Jon. She loved Sansa. She’d come to appreciate Lady Arya. She’d accepted that Eddard Stark was more than just “The Usurper’s dog.” She made herself bury her concerns over the Starks’ mysterious brother. But she didn’t appreciate how the continuation of her dragons was being questioned while the Starks frolicked and warged into direwolves and communed with mysterious forces much too close to the home of the White Walkers.

Over the years, Daenerys had reconciled and compromised a great deal. It did not escape her notice that the next generation of Targaryens had more Stark blood than Valyrian. While Jon and Sansa’s marriage was one of the most advantageous things to happen during her reign, the arrangement still had its issues; including the confusing and precarious distribution of property and the complicated arrangements with the North. The religious tensions regarding Jon’s Northern Faith--- directly related to his brother--- hadn’t exactly been a picnic either. She’d given Jon a great deal of power rather quickly as well.

Daenerys wasn’t ungrateful or stupid--- she owed her nephew and his wife. But she’d given Jon a great deal of trust early on. And though she’d made a horrendous error with Sansa, she’d done everything in her power to make up for it. _Has House Stark ever held more power than they do now? It would not happen had I not trusted them._ They’d more than earned that trust, Daenerys knew it. _But I’d have hoped I might have earned some trust as well._

“I know he did. But there were things he knew, Jon, things he could do--- How is that any less dangerous than the dragons?”

Jon gaped at her. “The sphere of influence Bran has is _far_ more limited. And he is not king. He rarely ever directly interferes.”

“So they say. But your brother has influence, Jon, don’t deny it. His magic helped grant me control of the dragons. Greenseers are long-living too. Why couldn’t Bran wield his powers to keep them safe after we’re gone?”

“The greenseers before him didn’t stop the Dance of the Dragons, the Blackfyre Rebellions, the Field of Fire. I told you, his influence is limited.”

“Of course.” She didn’t completely believe that, though. She scowled. But she was getting nowhere with this. “Forget Bran then. What of the wolves, then? Are you telling me that if you came by a new litter of pups, you wouldn’t be eager to give them to your children? Your wife? Your niece?”

Jon blushed. “It’s different. Our control---“

“Oh, do Naerys, Robb, Brandon, and Aemon definitely have the Gift then?” Daenerys interrupted.

“I am not sure,” Jon confessed. “Naerys and Robb can detect when I’m inside Ghost’s head. Naerys’s bond with Viserion is very strong, very natural, but I’ve never seen them actually do it.”

“Well, then, you should block all efforts to allow the species to survive south of the Wall then, if continued control isn’t guaranteed.”

“We don’t know that it isn’t. Sansa has the gift, even if it hasn’t manifested the same way. She had a wolf too, though she lost Lady too soon for her abilities to develop as ours did. But some other things she can do are so uncanny that I’m convinced that if she were given the right animal, she’d be a regular, powerful warg. She has the same blood as her siblings, and they all have the Gift. And I do as well. My children are the products of two powerful wargs.”

“Which means it’s just as likely that their children will have those abilities as well. And as you’ve said, we can’t be sure how your grandchildren will turn out. What if they’re able to warg into dragons, Jon? Not even Aegon and his sister-wives could do that. I can’t do it. But I hardly think a person like that possessing a direwolf is that much safer than one possessing a dragon.”

“Direwolves aren’t the size of ships. They don’t breathe fire.”

“No, but they’re still ferocious beasts that can grow bigger than horses. Robb Stark once had his wolf, not even fully grown, tear the fingers off of Greatjon Umber, as his nephew was so eager to tell us tonight. People fear and mistrust wargs, Jon, as much as they fear and mistrust dragons. I doubt that’s an accident. And how can I be sure Bran’s influence will stay limited forever. The Children of the Forest once overran Westeros, and his niece is going to be Queen some day.”

Jon’s fists curled. “Daenerys, that doesn’t make the dragons any less dangerous. And there’s no getting around the fact that they have far more potential for destruction than any Direwolf. Three alone conquered Westeros. Three alone vanquished the White Walkers. You want eleven now.”

“The things we could do with them, Jon!” Daenerys was near tears now. _The blood of Valyria. The Targaryen Dynasty. My children._

She wanted to scream. She looked at Jon’s long, solemn face, his grey eyes, his dark hair. _Stark features. Stark upbringing. He was raised to hate the Targaryens, to be glad they were gone. He was raised Stark. He’s more Lyanna’s son, more Eddard’s nephew, than he is Rhaegar’s son. But after everything, how does he still not understand? After all we’ve done?_

“That’s the problem! It’s too much power for such a small group of people to hold!” Jon buried his face in his hands.

“And what happens if others end up holding it instead?”

At that, her nephew looked up. And Daenerys managed a smile. But it was a concern she had. “You take it for granted that this is a power that can only be possessed by us, but how can we be sure? Stannis, as you remember, could ride Viserion, even if his bond wasn’t as strong as ours. For all we know, Shireen might have that ability. Or any number of Robert Baratheon’s bastards. They all have Targaryen blood. And it’s not as if they’d be the only ones, either. The portrait of my namesake hangs on a wall in Sunspear: the last several generations of Martells have Valyrian blood. Quentyn failed to tame Rhaegal, but the bond can be fickle.”

“Dany---”

“You’re Lord of Dragonstone, Jon, you know about dragonseeds. And House Valeryon—that isn’t just a name. And there isn’t just  Westeros. You’ve been to Lys. You’ve seen all the white-haired, violet-eyed people there. We’re not the only descendents of the dragonlords, we’re just the only ones who have managed to hold onto their ancestors’ beasts. We lost the dragons, and we got them back again. And it only happened because a Magister from Pentos gifted me with some eggs and certain magical elements were set in place. Varys and Illyrio had the eggs, they arranged my match with Drogo and they even supposedly had another Targaryen waiting in the wings. Numerous magical forces have interfered with me and my dragons. The warlocks of the House of the Undying, your brother, the priests of R’hollor, the Greyjoys. Euron Greyjoy had that absurd dragonhorn, and supposedly at one point he possessed eggs of his own. How are we to know how many eggs are floating around, how many people might be able to find a way to hatch them? What happens if we let our own dragons die out and someday, some dragonseed from Asshai or Qarth or Volantis manages to hatch some? They could lose control of theirs, or use them to wreak untold destruction upon the world, with nothing and no one to challenge them. I know how coveted dragons are. At least we have some control, some knowledge.”

“Daenerys… What happened with you was a miracle...”

“But not impossible. And it doesn’t mean it couldn’t ever happen again. And even if we don’t hatch the eggs ourselves, how can we be sure that a century from now, our descendents won’t hatch them? Or another clutch? We need to know as much as possible, as quickly as possible. As long as we don’t hatch anything, the more we’re still leaving up to chance. At least we know enough to be responsible, to control things. But my great-grandfather burnt Summerhall to the ground trying to hatch dragons. At least if we figure out how to do it now, we don’t have to worry about that happening again.”

Jon shook his head. “We’re still leaving so much up to chance, though…”

“Jon, even if the dragons die out, there’s always going to be something that could destroy the world. At least we have a chance to achieve greater understanding of this. And it isn’t like war and horror went away when the dragons died out the first time.”

Her nephew scowled. “Still… Eleven dragons? It’s too much. Can’t we at least just try one or two? We’d learn how to do it, but we wouldn’t be unleashing quite as much fire onto the ream. And they’d be easier to control.”

Daenerys considered this, with a degree of reluctance. _He’s right,_ she admitted to herself bitterly. “Very well. And we could put it off a bit, I suppose. At least until after the babe is born. I can delay the studies.”

Her anger had long died away by now. While she didn’t exactly feel triumphant, she felt she’d held her ground well enough. And now, she couldn’t help but look upon her nephew with pity. Jon rested his chin upon his chin, staring into his cup, grey eyes weary. Jon always had the air of someone of more years with his solemn expressions, quiet nature, and cynical outlook. There had always been a certain sadness and austerity to him. You knew, looking at him, that his eyes had seen a great deal, and that a lot of what he’d seen was unpleasant.

But these days, it wasn’t just his expression or aura that conveyed years. Jon was five-and-thirty now, not old, but not a youth anymore either. There were some faint lines around his grey eyes beyond the scars there, and he sometimes limped when he was tired. He was still fit, virile, with a fair degree of youth to him, but it was clear that his prime wouldn’t last forever.

And that was more apparent recently. He looked so very, very tired. And it killed her. Especially given the babe.

Jon’s morose manner was often joked about. People sometimes called him the Dreary Dragon and The Grey Prince. But usually, during his wife’s pregnancies, there was a noticeable improvement in his demeanor. Even during the rougher parts when Sansa carried Naerys, Jon had a marked improvement following the announcement, he smiled more easily, and he recovered from his prior struggles with stunning speed. He became even more boisterous just after Naerys was born, beaming and showing her off to everyone like she was made of diamonds and Valyrian steel. When Sansa fell pregnant again in Essos, she heard from multiple sources that her nephew was in good spirits, and when they’d returned, Sansa’s belly swollen, Jon had greeted Daenerys like an excited child, all hugs and smiles. The twins’ term was a period of absurd, marked cheer on Jon’s part, as he grew as close to buoyant as Daenerys had ever seen him.

The two failed pregnancies brought joy before their tragic ends. This one though was different. Jon was excited for a while, certainly, and eager, but markedly more cautious. And now it seemed all that enthusiasm was gone completely. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last few months.

Guilt overtook her for bringing up Bran. Jon felt the loss of all his Stark relatives keenly. And though Bran wasn’t dead, the lack of contact, the mystery, clearly still hurt. Daenerys liked to think that she and Jon were close, that they were a loving family. But she knew she could no more replace Robb, Bran, Rickon, Lord Eddard, or Benjen any more than Pod could replace Drogo.

“I’m sorry about what I said regarding Bran. It was wrong.”

Jon sighed. “No, I understand. You have just as much knowledge about what happened to him as I do. But… He’s my brother. I love him. He was always the sweetest, kindest child. And no matter how much he’s changed, I can’t believe that he’s lost his goodness.”

“How could he? You haven’t lost yours, and you’ve literally died.”

“It’s just hard, you know? I mean, these are my grandchildren, and I’m speculating about them being lunatics and tyrants.”

“I know how you feel.” It was Daenerys’s turn to look into the surface of her wine miserably. _Quentyn Martell. Hazzea. And that’s all I can produce. I am the Daughter of Death. Dragons don’t plant trees._ “Mother of Dragons” was both her triumph and her shame. She now forced herself not to cry.

She felt a hand take hers and looked up. Jon was looking at her, ashen-faced.

“It’s not… It’s not just the Targaryens, Daenerys. You’re right. It’s not just the dragons that are dangerous. Eddard Stark was a good, honorable man but… One of my Stark Ancestors was the first Night’s King, if the tales are true. And we didn’t come to rule the North by picking flowers. Direwolves are not dragons but they’re not daisies either.”

“No, they’re not. But perhaps that’s a good thing in a way. And for such vicious beasts as us, I don’t think we’re doing too poorly. And you’re right too. Hatching eight dragons at once is mad. One or two. I’ll speak to Lord Tyrion about it sometime tomorrow.”

Jon smiled. “On the bright side, Nani and Sarella arrive tomorrow as well.”

“I haven’t forgotten. A good thing too. After all this madness, it’ll be good to have some proper, sensible people around.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. But I had to say something.”

It was then that it occurred to her. “Yes. Now. Why now?”

She studied his face closely--- Jon rarely betrayed much--- and she detected a slight glimmer in his eyes.

“I... I’m not sure. I just have this odd feeling. Ever since Tyrion returned.”

Her lip curled. _There’s some Targaryen in him._ “So you felt it too.”

He nodded. “It’s… It’s not quite like when we met. But… There’s something about him. I never felt it years ago when I knew him. But his return means something, I know it.”

Dany nodded, feeling a little validated. But also a lot exhausted. “I’m glad we spoke on this. But now… I think it’s time you got back to your wife, don’t you agree?”

Relief spread across his features, and all of a sudden, he looked several years younger. “Yes,” he said, with a bit more energy than he’d possessed before. “I think so.”

Jon departed with a hug.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

She didn’t quite have the shape anymore to pace properly, but the pressure was palpable. Especially on her bladder, which she had to continuously empty, waddling in and out of bed to fill her chamber pot. _Boy or girl, the constant pissing always shows up._ Her children found it hysterical. Sansa did not. It made her feel disgusting, weak, and uncomfortable. Naerys was now at least old enough to find it unpleasant, but the boys still giggled about it.

 _This is the last time,_ she told herself, _last babe._ She couldn’t do it anymore. Their lives were too complicated, too stressful, and she wasn’t as young as she once was. The pregnancies with Robb and the twins were fairly peaceful, but the others were filled with stress. And that part of her life would not go away. She was a leader.

Sometimes, she felt tempted to just dispense with all of that and just be a wife and mother. Give up her seat on the council, give up full regency of the North to Arya until Robb came of age, and live the life her parents had planned for her. It wasn’t as if she were a fishwife or a hedge knight’s wife who had to clean soiled napkins and sweep floors herself. She was a princess with a score of attendants. Her direct labor in regards to her children could be entirely up to her. Not that she ever would neglect her babes so, but Sansa was well aware that she had far more control over the demands on her time than most women. She didn’t even have to nurse her own babes if she didn’t want to. And she knew she’d probably have a far easier time if she didn’t take such an active role in governance.

But she couldn’t. It wasn’t that she wanted the power, necessarily. That wasn’t it. It was that she knew she had to have it. She had a duty to her people, to her family, to her husband, to her lands, to do everything she could to keep things in order. One delusion that Sansa Stark never suffered from was the idea that she belonged to herself. She could not be selfish. The position her life had determined for her meant that she had to be active.

Sometimes, though, she truly hated her position in life. She’d ended up in a position where she was compelled to take power by a series of tragedies that meant she could either strive for more control and influence, or fail herself and everyone.

Even now, though, it bothered her. Even if the most pressing matter (aside from her bladder) wasn’t even a result of her work. No, at that moment, she was a woman severely worried for her husband: a strain common to so many, high and lowborn alike.

This concern had as much to do with Jon’s position as hers. Even more so, given the matter which he was at that moment presenting to the Queen of the Seven Realms. For all Sansa knew, after tonight’s talk, there could be major political upheaval, a threat to the peace they’d all worked so hard for.

Sometimes, she wished things were simpler. _Why can’t I just be worried about him catching a cold? Or spending too much time in the tavern? No, I have to worry about him drawing the ire of the most powerful person in the realm. Or falling off a dragon’s back. Or being forced to fight a hoard of Ironborn. I have to worry about us starting wars, or being assassinated, or accidentally raising a tyrannical despot._

 

Being worried for one’s family and home was stressful enough. But being worried for millions of people by extension of that was more than she could stand. For nearly everything they did, in a fashion, affected so, so many people.

Like now. This talk Jon was having with Daenerys could result in a rift between them. If there was a rift between them, the dynamic which had helped the three of them effectively rule this empire would be damaged and threatened. At best, it would slow a number of acts and processes vital to the maintenance of the realms.

Of the many, many lessons Sansa had learned over the years, one of the most vital was that things only worked well when people could work together harmoniously. But this talk, as important as Jon’s concerns were, could threaten the harmony between him and Daenerys. Possibly Daenerys and Sansa as well.

And, quite frankly, they were an absurdly important team.

There were other members of course, such as the members of the Small Council. But at the core was Daenerys, Jon, and Sansa. Even Willas, despite being Hand now, wasn’t quite at the center. As great and important as Willas was, he could be replaced if needed. But replacing Jon, even after he’d stepped down, would be far more traumatic to the running of the realm. Daenerys as well. And Sansa flattered herself that the same could be said for her. She kept the other two afloat.

They were like a stool: with three legs, they could stay up. Remove one leg, and the whole thing toppled over. Sansa couldn’t ride a dragon, and she might not be the “third head” of the dragon, but she was the third leg that kept the empire upright.

But if there was a major rift between any of them, then the balance and stability of their government would be threatened. A rift at best would knock the whole thing a bit off balance, cause the stool to wobble, lessen the weight and pressure the stool could take.

At worst, a leg could break off, and the whole thing could come crashing down in a blaze of warfare.

 _I should have stayed with him,_ Sansa thought to herself. _Both of them are under enough stress as it is, and I might be able to smooth things over._ But she feared it would look like they were ganging up on her. And if things got ugly, well, her own welfare didn’t just affect her. Sansa wasn’t in the habit of rubbing her belly like so many expected pregnant women to do all the time, but she rubbed it now.

As much as she trusted Jon, she couldn’t help but worry for him. And now she wondered if her presence, and her own concerns over what could happen to her and the babe if things blew up might be the very thing that might have kept things civil. Both Jon and Daenerys were ever-conscious of her health and well-being, after all.

But Jon didn’t want her there, that was the other thing. He’d decided at the last minute that she shouldn’t be there. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to focus as well, if I’m worrying about you,” he’d told her this evening as they dressed for dinner.

“You act like she’d attack me.”

“No, of course I don’t think that. It’s just… I’m worried about you being dragged into this. More than you should be. I know you’ve got more doubts than I do,” he’d told her, tightening the laces on his doublet, “And with how much insanity has popped up in these unexpected places, I just… Have no idea what might happen. And it’s not Dany I’m necessarily worried about, but whomever might be listening. Out of the three of us, it’s better if there’s one who seems as neutral on this issue to any would-be observers.”

“Jon, I’m your wife. If anyone were to listen in, they’d likely already guess where my loyalties lie.”

“They might guess, but they won’t be entirely certain. Husbands and wives have been at crosshairs before. We have even been on record as disagreeing over certain things. And it’s not as if you’re just my wife. You’re the Lady of Winterfell and Mistress of the Court. You’re Daenerys’s vassal, not mine, technically. And her minister. And your absence would maintain some doubts. It’s not like you’ve been shy about being by my side when we’re united on a position before. No, I’d rather have you at least appear neutral for the time being.”

“Then why did you ask me for advice and support in the first place?” She asked, pausing from pinning up her hair.

“Because I wanted your wisdom and emotional support, obviously. You _are_ my wife, and what I do has an affect on you. And your thoughts on things are as invaluable to me as they are to Daenerys and Westeros. But just because I wanted your advice about war doesn’t mean I expect you to go on the front lines for me, especially since you’re not entire sure of my cause.”

Sansa’s eyes had narrowed. “I would go to the front lines for you, happily.”

He’d walked over to her dressing table then and kissed her forehead. “I know, my love. At least, I believe you’d do it as long as I wasn’t being completely mad. And I know you don’t think my cause is completely mad now, either, and that that’s enough for you. And I love you for it. And I wouldn’t be sure whether I should pursue this or not if you weren’t here to tell me I’m not insane. But I want you back here, taking care of yourself. I’m not going to force you into this war.”

Sansa swallowed at that. “You seem so certain this will be a war.”

That scared her, and it didn’t seem fair, either. Daenerys was family, and she’d always valued their council even if it wasn’t always what she wanted to hear. She was no tyrant, no enemy. _Why would Jon speak of her as such?_

His face fell slightly then. “I’m sorry, Love. It’s not that. It’s the soldier in me talking. It’s politics.”

At that, she’d taken some affront. “I am to politics what you are to war and you know it.”

And it wasn’t as if she was a stranger to actual warfare herself. Sure, almost all the work was done by her officers and soldiers, but she’d been a leader then, she’d fought, she’d contributed ideas --- some of them quite good---, picked the right ideas of others’, she’d ridden out the same as any man. _Even if I cried the whole time, I still made kills of my own. I still faced down my enemies, led my men into battle, made proper calls, faced all the horrors. And I did it without a direwolf or dragon._ She wasn’t Jon, she wasn’t Daenerys, she wasn’t Asha Greyjoy, Visenya Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror, Daeron the Young Dragon, or Robert Baratheon, but she’d managed to fight a war when she couldn’t prevent it. Even if she was better at preventing wars than fighting them herself, she’d never lost a war she’d fought.

But a war prevented was better than a war fought, even if you won. And regardless of any supposed victory, Sansa didn’t want a war. And she didn’t like her husband speaking as if it were coming.

“I know that love. But I’m as much a hopeless politician as you are a hopeless fighter. You managed on the battlefield without me there. I think I can do the same here. Daenerys isn’t exactly an enemy. And frankly, I wouldn’t mind having you waiting back here for me when I get back.”

So she’d gone back to the apartments after dinner as he asked. She put the children to bed, made sure Jon’s bedclothes were setup, gotten undress, ordered some tea brought. Now she tried to sew in bed, got up to piss, and worried.

Sansa got to her feet and looked into Ghost’s red eyes. The beast nuzzled her lower arm and she scratched him behind the ears affectionately. “I wish I could go inside your head,” she told him, not for the first time, “Watch over him the way he watches over me sometimes. Ideally, I’d actually do it through Lady but…”

Her voice caught for a second. She fantasized about it sometimes: what her marriage would be like if Lady were alive and she was able to warg the way Arya and Jon could. She ruffled Ghost’s fur a bit. “I’d send Lady with Jon, you’d stay with me, and we could watch each other whenever we wished. And you’d have another wolf with you all the time. Maybe you’d even have pups we could give the children. Would you like that?”

The direwolf cocked its great white head and blinked.

“Don’t look at me like that. I know she was your littermate, but Jon and I were raised as children. And besides, your master is a Targaryen.”

Ghost pulled away somewhat then. Sansa sighed.

“Fair enough. Lady _was_ your true sister. I suppose that’s why you never sired a litter on Nymeria as well. I’m sorry. You’re a direwolf, not a dragon. But… So am I, right?”

Sometimes she wondered. She wondered if that was why Lady was killed: she wasn’t truly a Stark, truly a wolf. She’d always been a step apart from her siblings, she supposed. She didn’t look like a Stark the way Jon and Arya did. She never warged. Her life had even taken her from Winterfell.

Ghost came forward again and licked her cheeks, then buried his snout in her neck. There was a scratching sound at the door then. Sansa reluctantly pulled away and made for the door, Ghost following close behind. She opened it to find Nymeria sitting at the door.

Sansa’s eyes widened. While Nymeria didn’t follow as close or as constantly as Ghost, since Arya’s arrival, the she-wolf had paid more attention to Sansa than was normal. Most of the time, she and Nymeria were friendly, and the wolf did respond to her call and was gentle with her, but not hugely invested in her. Nymeria was Arya’s wolf through and through: usually with her mistress, her mistress’s daughter, or out in the wilds, running about. Their encounters either had Arya present or were by chance. But since the arrival in King’s Landing, occasionally Nymeria did seem to seek her out on her own.

 _But it was Nymeria who prompted Arya to visit,_ Sansa reminded herself. She swallowed.

“Are you here for Ghost or for the babe?” Sometimes, the two of them went out running together. And when she was around, Nymeria usually focused on her belly.

The grey direwolf surprised her this time, though, by bending her massive head and licking Sansa’s palm and wrist.

“You’re here for me?”

Nymeria stood up straight and licked her cheeks. Sansa giggled in spite of herself.

“Would you like to come in?” She asked her sister’s wolf. This was certainly unexpected. She might have expected behavior like this if Arya were inside the she-wolf’s head, but Sansa could tell she wasn’t.

The she-wolf pulled back, then turned, scampering off.

_Yes, certainly my sister’s wolf, No interest in watching me sew all night, no matter how affectionate she feels._

Still, Sansa was comforted as she closed the door. She looked at Ghost and smiled. “Thank you. I’m glad you both think I’m one of you.”

The white wolf took the cuff of her bed robe in his mouth and gave a slight tug towards the fireplace, where Sansa and Jon’s chairs were waiting. It looked too cozy to resist. And the bed didn’t seem right at the moment.

“Good idea. We should probably sit and talk. I’ll get the tea, you can get my stitching.”

Ghost obeyed her as he always did. Sana took her seat on the blue velvet, overstuffed chair by the fire, setting the tea down on the side table between and Jon’s chairs, and took her stitching. Ghost sat next to her and rest his head upon her lap.

“You know, Ghost, I think you’ve become quite domesticated in your old age,” she teased him. “But if Jon were in any trouble, you’d know, right? You’d run for him?”

The beast’s ears twitched. And Sansa found some peace.

She knew it was silly, talking to the wolves like a child. But she couldn’t help it. They _did_ seem to answer her in a fashion, in a way that went beyond the ways pets could answer. They had a greater intelligence, it seemed, than a horse or one of her hunting birds or normal dogs. She and Ghost especially seemed to truly communicate. And it gave her comfort. Jon claimed she could truly talk to them, that it was one of the ways her warg powers worked. Sansa wasn’t so sure, but if that was false, it was a comforting falsehood.

Not too long after, the door opened, and Sansa’s heart began to flutter. But when Jon entered, she felt her alarm deteriorate considerably, even before she saw the smile playing on his lips or his confident stride.

“It’s all well, Sansa,” he told her, coming towards her. He bent down to kiss her, resting a hand on her belly and rubbing it. “Daenerys was understanding. She agreed to put off the hatching for a while, and only do one or two.”

Sana sighed with relief. “I _thought_ she would!”

She had, too. Daenerys was their family. Their friend. Their partner. _Of course Jon’s war talk was just the soldier in him._ She chided herself for being taken in by it.

The firelight bounced upon Jon’s skin, giving him a rosy, amber glow. He stood up and looked down at her. “You look so beautiful.”

She felt blood rush to her face. “I don’t _feel_ very beautiful at the moment,” she admitted to him. _I’ve pissed too many times tonight for that. And I’m fat as a house._ But now was not time for her vanity. “Tell me everything.”

“Later.” Jon got to his knees before her, eyes flashing. “Now… Let me fix your problem.”

“What problem?”

“You not feeling beautiful,” he replied, his hands flying to her knees, “Any moment you don’t feel beautiful is a great problem. As your husband, it is my duty to fix that.”

“That must have been a very good talk,” Sansa replied, shocked. Of all the moods she’d expected from her husband when he came back, this was the last one. “What’s gotten into you?”

He grinned. “I’m just glad something went well. It’s not just relief. It’s that, with everything that’s happened, all the unexpected, ridiculous things we’ve been saddled with, this turned out well. An unexpected victory. And I’m inflamed with the spirit of victory. And the only thing that could possibly make me feel any better is you, my lady. You’re not too tired, are you?”

It was her turn to smile then. He looked so young and hopeful, and it had been so long since she’d seen him like this. She felt her own passions begin to rise.

“Let Ghost out first,” she whispered, giggling. The bed looked quite welcoming now. She pulled herself up out of the chair, trying not to grunt. But when Jon turned around and saw where she was going, he stopped her.

“No, I--- I mean, let’s do it there. By the fire.”

Sansa felt her whole body heat up. But her senses overran her passions. “I’d  love to but…” she gestured to the hard wooden floor, “That doesn’t exactly sound easy on the back and knees.”

“Take off that bedgown and sit down, and I’ll take care of that.”

She hesitated. In her condition, she wasn’t always comfortable naked. “You get naked first.”

Jon ripped his clothes off with an urgency that almost frightened her. Not that she minded. Her pulse quickened as she watched him rip off his doublet and tunic as he backed towards the bed, eyes glued to her. As he kicked off his boots and undid the laces on his hose, Sansa found the confidence to drop her dressing gown and tug her nightdress over her head. She saw Jon’s toned chest and stomach rise and fall more manically, more deeply as he gazed upon her nude form. Sansa felt a delicious twist in her lower belly. _He wants me so. Even as I am._

Her husband turned away towards the bed with some reluctance, his eyes struggling to leave her as he yanked some pillows and blankets from the bed. Sansa didn’t mind so much, though. Jon bending over naked was rarely a sight she regretted seeing. She loved his backside.

She sat down as her husband carried over a mountain of bed things that seemed to engulf him. Breathing heavily, he dropped them on the ground and began arranging it all, making a makeshift mattress out of pillows and draping a blanket over it all. As he worked, he kept his eyes on her. Sansa smirked and teased him, seized by a certain animalistic confidence, parting her legs, teasing her hardening nipples with a fingertip, and letting down her hair.

Once Jon finished, he actually crawled towards her, panting. When he got to her, he pushed her knees apart even farther and ran his tongue up the inside of her right thigh, from knee to core. Sansa pushed her pelvis forward eagerly, watching Jon’s head disappear from behind her belly.

When his mouth made contact with her mound, she instantly reached for his head, frantically (which proved a more difficult task thanks to her belly). “Oh gods, Jon,” she moaned as she felt him part her lower lips. His breath, hot and heavy, made contact with the more sensitive flesh first, conjuring a shudder from her. And then…

“Fuck!” She cried out when he attacked her nub, sucking and licking at it eagerly. She didn’t know whether it was the time, or her condition, but she felt more sensitive than ever.

A moan escaped him as he worked, and in the bliss, Sansa felt his hands grip her thighs firmly. The need of it felt almost as good as his mouth.

Sansa squealed as she felt the pressure in her mount and mount as her husband administered all the right licks and sucks and kisses. Sansa whimpered out encouragements and exclamations until she could no longer speak. Something within her came crashing down.

She was a warm, sweaty mess of limbs and delight as she came down and felt Jon nuzzling the inside of her leg. “Help me up,” she gasped. When Jon rose to do just that, his beard damp, Sansa resisted the urge to reach for his cock. Instead, she took hold of his arms and as she stood, held his shoulders and kissed him deep, tasting herself on his full lips. Eager, she ran a hand through his hair, getting lost in its softness.

Slowly, they made their way to the pile of pillows and such. Sansa broke from him briefly to gasp, “Lie back.”

They both sunk to the ground carefully, Jon getting on his back as instructed, gazing up at her in outright reverence.

“I love you,” he told her as he helped her straddle him. They joined hands as she knelt and inched herself up, finding his cock.

“I love you too,” she moaned, sinking herself onto him.

He helped her move up and down on his cock, the two of them gasping as they smiled and looked into each others’ eyes. Their lovemaking was less fluid, a bit more clumsy, but no less perfect. After a while, their thrusts became more frantic.

As Sansa reached her peak, she knew Jon had been successful. When she saw his eyes roll back, she felt she couldn’t remember the last time she felt more beautiful.

She rolled off of him quickly, curling up by his side and smiling as he put an arm around her. Sansa rested her head on his shoulder and held him back, giggling a bit as she felt his fingers find her hair and begin playing with it. They gasped a bit, feeling one another’s heartbeat as they came down.

The world seemed to slow and shrink to just them. Sansa loved it when it felt like that.

After a while, she spoke. “Do you feel as beautiful as I do?”

Jon turned his head to smile at her. “If you feel as beautiful as you look, then yes.”

“It’s all going to be alright,” she said, believing it suddenly, “It will.”

_These are the arms that hold me. This is the man in my bed. This is what my life is._

“I’m glad you sound so certain now. I suppose I should be flattered. I must have done well.”

She poked him playfully. “It’s not just that. You just reminded me of something.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“That despite everything that’s been done to me, I still managed to become Sansa Stark Targaryen. I’m not Sansa Lannister, or Alayne Stone, or any of the things anyone tried to make me be. I’m what makes me happy. And even after everything, I have the ones I love to love me.”

“Of course.” They kissed deeply.

She wasn’t sure when they fell asleep, but she became acutely aware of the moment she woke. Consciousness returned with a bang and a thud.

“Mama! Papa!” Brandon’s voice. “Why’s Ghost outside? Why’s the door locked? Let us iiiiinnnnn!”

More than one pair of fists was banging on the door. Sansa blinked several times. It was then she realized she and Jon were still naked, lying on their makeshift bed by the fireplace. _Oh thank the gods he bolted the door last night._

Jon was stirring as well. “Wazzappening?!”

“The children.”

He groaned. “Stop banging and carrying on!” He shouted as they both sat up. “Give us a minute!”

He helped her up, the two of them unsteady on the cushions, and tossed her the discarded nightdress and robe before running over to the bed to piss and throw on the robe and tunic that had been laid out. Sansa tossed on her clothes, waddled over to her chamberpot to piss as well, then went to tie her hair back a bit.

Jon hurriedly gathered up the blankets and cushions as Sansa went to open the door. It was still early, judging by the light. The twins and her niece stood before her, their hair all sticking out every which way, all of their sleeping clothes. But Brandon and Aemon were bright eyed.

“Nani and Sarella are coming today!” Aemon said, looking thrilled.

Sansa sighed. “That they are.”

Brandon peered around her. “Is Papa building a pillow fort?”


	15. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion gets a lot of bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to bbanzaiz for beta-ing!

Chapter 15: Fire

Tyrion:

_Some say dragons were the original kings of all beasts, the focus of all magic. Old legends claim that when the first dragons hatched, all the great beasts, all the magical animals were drawn to the nest, traveling far and wide to bow before them and pay their tribute._

Tyrion sighed, sat back in his desk chair, and gestured to Tom to push the tome away from him. The thing was huge, and Tyrion’s shoulder already hurt from spending hours hunched over it. “Don’t close it,” Tyrion told the lad, rubbing his dry eyes. “So far it’s total rubbish, but there may be something in there yet.”

It was about midday, and Tyrion had been up since before dawn in his solar, reading various books. The candle he’d originally lit was burnt out, and his clothes were wrinkled.

The piece wasn’t the old Draven work, _Fire and Blood Magic,_ that he’d been looking for, but a book that was supposed to be similar, called _Resurrecting Valyrian Glory_ by an Archmaester named Donilhue. The books had the same subject matter: the history of hatching dragons both past successful efforts and later unsuccessful ones. Draven and Donilhue were contemporaries. They’d even authored another work together: _The Myths and Truths of Garth Greenhand_ , which had been another favorite of Tyrion’s as a child.

 _Resurrecting Valyrian Glory,_ however, was far more easy to find than _Fire and Blood Magic_ , and Tyrion within a few lines could tell why: it was clearly Targaryen propaganda. Both books were written near the tail end of Aegon the Unlikely’s reign, when the Targaryens were awaiting for the man’s line to spawn the Prince That Was Promised and everyone was waiting with bated breath for the dragons to be hatched once more.

But where _Fire and Blood Magic_ had been a warning, this book seemed like an encouragement already. Tyrion recognized it right away, too. Every beast gathering to bow down to the dragons upon their birth sounded a lot like an animal coronation. All the Great Houses came to bow down to kings when they were crowned. Ofttimes it was expected when the heir to the throne was born, too.

Upon Joffrey’s birth, Cersei and Robert had taken part in such an affair, having representatives from nearly every House come from all over Westeros to bow down to Cersei’s infant and swear to lay down their lives for him as the little brat shit his swaddling clothes and drooled before all the realm. _Still one of the least offensive things Joffrey ended up doing to his subjects._

House Targaryen, Tyrion imagined, was no different, except perhaps a bit more extreme. In Aerys the Mad’s day, he’d insist upon making even Tywin bow low to him. The Targaryens fancied themselves dragons, some literally drinking wildfire thinking it would turn them into one. And the image of every beast in the world (including, no doubt, lions, stags, direwolves, krackens, and falcons) bowing down to newly-hatched dragons and recognizing them as their sovereign before they’d breathed even one tiny flame would appeal to them greatly. Even Aegon the Unlikely, an overall good sort, would have liked it.

 _Too bad he didn’t prefer Draven. Summerhall might have been avoided._ But he hadn’t. In fact, by all accounts _Fire and Blood Magic_ was mostly shoved aside, hence its rarity today. _But this thing has a comfy place right in the royal library, and still they cannot hatch the things._

Tyrion suspected that he was likely to glean as much useful information out of this book than anyone. Willas Tyrell had suggested it, saying both he and the queen had read it. _Likely he gave it to me to waste my time._

No doubt the Tyrells would consider it an enormous blow if Tyrion managed to hatch the things. No one ever shut up about how brilliant Lord Willas had been the one to discover that the dragon Rhaegal was carrying, and how he bred the very best horses and hunting dogs and falcons and probably the very best kittens, hedgehogs, and pineapple trees as well.  But for a dozen years he’d failed to get them to hatch. _But if an imp like me just waltzed in and made them come out, how would that look?_ Tyrion smirked at the idea. _No doubt Willas owes his position to those eggs, at least in part. To have that rendered moot by a creature like me? Everything else that caused his rise was his sister batting her eyelashes at the right people._

Not that Willas Tyrell was incompetent. No, the Hand seemed to do his job fairly well, successfully maintaining the country’s bank, cleaning up the city, staying friendly with the court. But he’d have never gotten into the position to do any of it if not for Lady Margaery’s manipulations.

He’d gotten pieces of the story from Pod and Margaery herself: how through her friendship with the princess, she’d convinced the royal family to put both her and Willas on the council. How they’d risen up the ranks from basic advisors to actual masters. Tyrion wasn’t shocked: as kin, they formed an alliance, a crucial one. They’d agree with one another on everything, craft their plans together. It was no wonder Willas replaced Jon after the Prince stepped down.

But a bigger power block existed: the Targaryen one. And even Highgarden wasn’t immune to dragon fire. If Tyrion managed to hatch the eggs, he’d be a contender within the court whether they liked it or not.

 _And if their efforts to get in my way are any indication, they think it might happen._ Perhaps he should take this useless book as an encouragement then.

But it did occur to him that if the Tyrells found out about Draven’s book, he might have a problem. He truly felt that there could be something truly helpful in there, and if they got their hands on a copy before he did, maybe they could beat him to it.

Tyrion sighed and glanced around at the stone walls of the room. The apartments were fine, not exceptionally grand, but he had two rooms not counting the cell for his servants, and he has decent furniture. The desk they’d given him was uncommonly large, and often made him feel event smaller than normal. The chair had to be piled with cushions to get him comfortable. It made him feel like a child. He loathed that. But work usually absorbed him enough to take him away.

Still, even with the cushions, the setup was uncomfortable, which was why Tyrion had ordered a new table that was very low to the ground. It was supposed to arrive that day, actually, he remembered before looking over at Tom.

“How long until the new table comes?”

“Actually it’s due in an hour or so,” the lad told him. “Would you like to freshen up before they arrive?”

“I suppose I could try.” When one didn’t have a nose, it was often hard to ever become truly “fresh”, and Tyrion hadn’t always been the most hygienic beforehand either. _Not that anyone would notice freshness in a dwarf anyways. I could scrub myself with soap and sea salt and soak myself in water and mint leaves for a week straight and people would still see filth once I came out._

Still, he let Tom help him out of the chair and called for a bath. Cleaning himself did actually feel good for him. He’d not been one for bathing before his exile, but once regular access to soap and hot water were denied to him, he’d realized how much he’d taken it for granted.

Indeed, the reason his shoulder was so damaged now was in part because of this. Tyrion had been hit with an arrow during a battle in Yunkai, and only received minor care. After the battle, he’d not had enough coin to see a physician, preferring to drink whatever money he had away. It was only after it had swollen up and turned purple that he (very painfully) went without a bottle of rum one night and went to a healer instead. The healer had cursed him and informed him that if he’d come sooner, “I could have fixed this, no problem. Now you may lose the arm.”

He managed to keep the arm (and the use of it), but there wasn’t much he could do with it now without pain. Staying in the same position for too long, pressure, things like that also aggravated it.

So now he sunk into the hot water with an appreciative groan and let Tom wash his hair. The boy was well taught, with gentle hands. He could give a good shave as well. He didn’t even wince too much when he saw his master undress. Tyrion appreciated that.

“Do you have the stuff for my shoulder?”

“I do.” Tom opened and handed him the little clay jar of yellowish paste, and Tyrion rubbed it on and Tom lathered his hair. There was still a large purplish-brown mark with a depression where the healer had to cut out chucks of flesh, but Tyrion had gotten over some of the ugliness on his body. He’d even been able to make friends with the hole in his nose over the years. The actual marks were a fascination. It was the looks they got from people that he hated.

By the time the carpenter’s people arrived, the dwarf was washed, shaved, and dressed in a fresh doublet and hose. They settled the new table in the middle of the room. Tyrion had to admit: the workmanship was excellent. Solid, varnish oak, engraved, perfectly balanced. It was exactly the right size, as was the special chairs he ordered.

While inspecting the lions carved into the corners, he listened to the movers whisper to one another.

“I hear they’re all gathering outside, the whole royal family,” one youth said to another as they packed up the cart in which they’d rolled the chairs. “Some sort of welcoming. If we go quickly, we can see them.”

Tyrion’s ears perked up. Granted, he didn’t have much of a spy network at court these days, but not hearing about this was odd. _An occasion momentous enough to summon the whole royal family?_

The Lannister caught Tom’s eye and gestured towards the young men. His manservant awkwardly walked over and asked in a wavering voice, “Oh? Um, where?”

“Why do you care? You’re a court lad. Don’t you see the royals all the time?”

“I’m, uh, new to the court. Brand new. I, um, haven’t seen them altogether yet. And not the prince’s wife. The um, other’s say that she’s been staying in because she’s with child.”

 _That would have been a great cover if you weren’t saying it like a lie. And it’s only half of one._ Tom had seen Sansa, but he hadn’t yet seen the royals all in one place. And he was fairly new to court. And Sansa had been more secluded lately. _So why are you saying it like it’s all falsehood? What’s wrong with you?_

“Ah. Well, they’re gathering at the South Gate, apparently. If you can get away from your master, maybe you’ll get a chance.”

“Much thanks, Mate.”

A few minutes later, Tyrion and Tom were hurrying down the halls to the South Gate. Whomever they were welcoming had to be a person of enormous significance. _The governor of Meereen? A diplomat from Pentos? A Lord Paramount?_ Whoever they were, Tyrion wanted to study them immediately, and how the royal family interacted with them. It could tell him a lot.

By the time they got to the South Gate, Tyrion was panting. And indeed, the whole royal set was there, gathered at the foot of the main steps. Tyrion who had come from a side gate, observed them from several yards away. Queen Daenerys stood with noble bearing in blue robes that billowed around her, looking like she might take flight. Lady Naathia was to her right looking pleased. Indeed, the whole group looked excited. One of the prince’s boys, Prince Brandon, was bouncing a bit standing between Lady Naathia and his twin brother.  To the Queen’s left was the royal couple and their two eldest. Prince Jon had a protective arm wrapped around his wife’s middle as both Naerys and Robb chattered to their parents excitedly.

It seemed an oddly casual setup for such a greeting. _Surely Jon isn’t allowed to hold his wife that way in public. Nor are the children allowed to talk and fuss like that in a formal setting._ And their clothes were oddly casual.

Before he could ponder things further, a man called for the gate to be open, and there was some scrambling from the attendants present. When the gate opened, a shockingly small party entered the courtyard. At the head of it was a handsome woman with skin the color of burnt umber wood atop a black Dornish stallion. Strapped to her back was a bow and quiver with sun designs etched into the leather. Following behind her were a couple of guards and a cart drawn by two brown mares. In addition to a couple of chests and a sack, there was an old woman wrapped in blue wool, also with dark skin, reclining in a makeshift seat in the back, smiling wide and waving.

As this part began to stop and alight, Tyrion kept looking at the gate, waiting for whomever the true guest was to arrive. It was only when the doors started closing did he look over and see that the heir to the Iron Throne and his children had hurried over to the cart, crying out. Then, not only did the heir to the Targaryen Empire help lift the old woman out of the cart like a common stablehand, but his daughter and eldest son had jumped in to pull some of the luggage out. Meanwhile, the queen, princess, and Lady Naathia, were greeting the woman on the Horse.

The prince escorted the old woman over to his wife, aunt, and Lady Naathia on his arm like she was the highest of ladies. All three women embraced her lovingly in turn. When the woman hugged and kissed Sansa, she placed her hands on the princess’s belly.

That was when Tyrion realized he recognized her: it was the healer, Nani, that Sansa had with her at The Rock. The one who always looked at him like she was worried he’d explode. _Has she been gone?_ Tyrion hadn’t realized. But still, the familiarity with which this woman was allowed to greet and touch the royal family shocked him. And in public.

But his surprise was mitigated for a second when he noticed one of the travelers’ servants looking over and giving him an odd look. The man was tall and extremely pale, with eyes a watery blue. Tyrion was used to odd, curious, and even horrified looks. But there was something to this man’s expression which was uncomfortably familiar. Tyrion stared the man down as the servant unloaded a chest from a wagon, never once breaking his gaze.

“Lord Tyrion!”

The Lannister nearly jumped out of his skin and turned, seeing one of Pod’s Gold Cloaks standing behind him. The City Watch was, no doubt due to instructions from their Commander, respectful to him at all times and solidly professional, despite many of their members clearly being of humble origins. The man before him was middle-aged and sandy-haired, looking to be a higher-up in the ranks.

“Her Grace Queen Daenerys would like to take a meeting with you just before sundown this evening, in her solar.”

Tyrion felt his heart swell up a bit. _Perhaps she’s found the books._ Tyrion had informed the dragon queen of his need to find _Fire and Blood Magic,_ and she’d said she’d have someone look into it for her. _That tome could be the key to all of this._

Apparently this new visitor was important, but not more important than what he had to offer the queen. Tyrion grinned and nodded. “Tell the queen I shall be happy to attend her whenever she has need of me.”

Pleased, he returned to his quarters and prepared for his meeting, having Tom dress him in his second-best velvets and put all the necessary documents in a carefully organized portfolio for him. When he entered the queen’s cavernous solar, it was with a spring in his step.

The dragon queen sat at a small table by a window overlooking her lemon tree orchard, a common perch for her during meetings. Tyrion didn’t mind it much, given the refreshing citrus scent that often wafted in from outside. The queen was already dressed for dinner in smooth, rose-colored linen, a necklace of jade beads about her neck which she kept playing with.

Tyrion managed to bow low upon entering, letting Tom drop the documents on the table once Daenerys bid them to rise.

“Greetings, my queen. Enchanted as always.” Tyrion let Tom help him into the chair across from the queen once leave was given. “I hope I find you well. I’ve made some progress on our special, scale-y matter. Granted, though, not as much as I’d like. But I feel more and more confident that once the book is located, we’ll make a major breakthrough, and I’ve made some very interesting notes in the meantime---”

She held up a hand then. “---Lord Tyrion, you needn’t worry. You of course are expected to take your time.”

And at once, his excitement died away and concern took over. _Oh dear._ Tyrion’s eyes narrowed as the queen continued.

“---In fact, I wanted to speak to you about lowering the scope of our ambitions and delaying them a bit.”

“I thought Your Grace was eager to bring a new crop of dragons into the world.”

“I am. Or, I was. But given recent events and some matters that have been brought to my attention, I think trying to hatch as many of the eggs as soon as possible would be too hasty of an endeavor.”

“I see.” Tyrion gritted his teeth.

“For one thing, there is the matter of the upcoming royal birth. Given some of the--- struggles that have come about during this pregnancy, I worry the risk and excitement of hatching the eggs might be too much and endanger the princess and her new child. I’d like to keep things calm at least until the princess has recovered from delivering a healthy babe. And quite frankly, the number of new dragons would be a little too much at this point. There are only so many Targaryens, and these are dangerous beasts.”

 _I wonder who has inspired this manner of thinking._ Tyrion thought sarcastically. It was well known that Prince Jon wasn’t as enthusiastic about the dragons as his aunt, and the princess even less so. But he couldn’t mention them. Too obvious. “What does the Lord Hand think?”

“He is sympathetic and supportive of whatever I choose.” She said this in an odd tone.

 _She’s lying. She probably hasn’t even told him yet._ Tyrion took some relief from this. Of course, he’d need to do some further checking to make sure. And it was a small victory. _Compared to this overwhelming let-down._

Tyrion tried to bottled up his anger. This was supposed to be what launched him. His moment of glory. “Your Grace, from what I’ve read, it might be difficult to just hatch one part of a clutch.”

“Then we’ll find a way to manage. And we will take our time. Years, if need be.”

“My queen, please… You’ve waited years already. Give me this chance to----”

“It’s not just about you, Lord Tyrion.”

“Of course it’s not. It’s about the realm. The Targaryen empire and legacy, the line of Old Valyria. We have a miraculous opportunity here. To bring back the glory of your ancestors and the greatest civilization the world has ever known!”

He saw her violet eyes flicker. She loved the glory of her bloodlines.

“That civilization was built upon the backs of far more slaves than dragons. Something I happen to be opposed to.”

The condescension with which she said this infuriated him. _I know about slavery, Girl. I was a slave. I still wear the brand._ Very casually he scratched that part of his face with a single finger and gave her a careful look that said as much. She met his eyes coolly, unchastened.

Tyrion decided not to push that point. “But you are hardly opposed to dragons, last I checked.”

“I am not. I am just taking my time with them. And so shall you.”

“As I have heard, your nephew took his time with them as well, didn’t he? Never had a problem walking a bloody great direwolf with him wherever he goes but a dragon---”

“He raised that wolf from birth.” But there was a touch of vabrato in her voice that hadn’t been there before.”

“We’d be raising these dragons from hatching,” he reminded her.

“Dragons breathe fire, grow far larger, fly, and I’m not a warg.”

“Jon is. And his children are all as Stark as he is. As their mother and aunt. There seems to be a bit of bias of wolf versus dragon.”

“I am aware.”

 _So it was one of them who convinced you of this._ “What does the prince think of this?”

“He supports me. He’s a smart man. I learned to trust him long ago when we flew into battle together.”

 _‘I did not fly into battle with you, and you are practically a stranger’, you mean. But I did fight for you._ Tyrion hid his clenched fists under the table.

 _No._ The time had to be soon. Had to be _now. Before the world passes me by again._ Seized by anger, but knowing there was nothing he could gain from expressing it, Tyrion quietly excused himself. He waited until he was alone in his bedchamber to shriek into his pillows and tear them apart.

He didn’t so much wake the next day as heave himself upward. He snapped at Tom to rise at dawn, had the boy dress him in the head-to-toe leathers Tyrion had bought, and demanded that a litter be prepared and take him to Rhaenys’s Hill. The transporters gave him looks as filthy as their bleary eyes would allow. Tyrion ignored them. He was used to it. Ignoring how sloppily they carried the litter was less easy, and he shouted his dissatisfaction repeatedly.

When they got to the hill, the dragonpit, despite its name, loomed over him. He stumbled out of the litter: his leathers had not gotten much use and were still tight and inflexible. The men barely hid their chuckles.

“At least when I trip, I don’t do it into mule shit,” he snapped at one of them, noting the dirt on their knees. The young man gave a mumbled apology, but in his eyes he seemed to say, _Worth it to annoy you._

Tyrion glared up at the walls of the pit and entered under the arch, giving his name to the guards stationed outside. Not that it was necessary. Of course they recognized him. Daenerys had given leave for him to visit the dragons at whim, a privilege Tyrion hadn’t exploited much since he got there. Now he cursed himself for it.

The Lannister refused to let Tom help him up the steps to the dais, despite his leg and how swelteringly hot it was. As he struggled upwards, he kept his eyes brazenly on the abyss below. The deep snores of the beasts echoed off the walls, though they seemed to keep mostly out of sight. Despite this, Tyrion found himself fixated on the dark hole.

Silently, he dared one of the beasts to fly up and impress him. He begged them to.

As he reached the top, one of them seemed willing to oblige him. There was a great rumbling and a faint flutter of wings. Tom yelped and backed up against the wall. Tyrion hurried to the rail.

There were beats, growing ever-louder, and Tyrion caught a puff of flame, then an bronze gleam. Seconds later, great emerald wings came into view and before he knew it, he was looking up, not down, at the great green form of Rhaegal.

The creature hovered over them for a few seconds, taking in their gazes.

“I bet you’re used to being stared at too,” Tyrion said, not sure what to say, “But thank you for rising for me. Your siblings could stand to emulate your good manners. Do you know who I am? I’m the Giant of Casterly Rock, the only living son of Lord Tywin Lannister, the Imp. The man who was going to hatch those eggs you went to the trouble of hatching all those years ago. But now your mother and… what do you think of Jon as? Your cousin? Well, he’s your rider, I believe. Your mother and your rider don’t want me to do that now.”

He was babbling a bit. And he wished it was from awe. Mostly it was an attempt to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, conjured by his stubborn lack of awe.

Rhaegal turned around and flew up to a higher perch, settling on it. Tyrion scowled.

The opening of the door echoed as much as anything in the pit. And in entered a tall, slim, masculine figure dressed head to toe in supple brown leathers, leading a small group of attendants. Even with the cap covering the shaggy dark hair underneath, Tyrion instantly realized who it was. And it seemed like his blood had been replaced with wildfire. Rhaegal raised her massive head upon that entry.

The prince called out to his dragon fondly and started climbing the stairs to the dais. But he stopped for a second when he spotted Tyrion, then began to hurry up.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon Targaryen said, his voice tempered, “I did not expect to see you here.”

_I bet you didn’t._

“My prince,” the Lannister replied, bowing awkwardly and trying not to glare. It became harder when Rhaegal eagerly flew over again and laid her head upon the rail. The prince patted her snout fondly, the way one would do with a horse or a dog. It irritated Tyrion further.

“I felt that I could use a good look at the beasts up close. Even if your aunt does not wish me to hatch all the eggs soon anymore, research is its own reward. I didn’t expect anyone else to be here this early.”

“I’m used to early mornings, especially with Rhaegal,” the prince replied, taking a giant slab of bloody meat from the basket one of the dragon minders offered him and tossing it to the dragon. The movement, rapid opening and shutting of the beast’s enormous jaws caused enough of a shockwave to make Tyrion to stumble, while the prince stayed steady on his feet. His men started coming forwards with bridles, reins, and what appeared to be a saddle. Rhaegal moved so her body was parallel with the rail, allowing one of the men to climb atop and start placing it on her. Jon helped the other men with his dragon’s head restraints in a manner so casual one would think him a stable boy and not the heir to an empire. “She’s a good companion to start the day with.”

 _Moreso than your wife? If the dragon is a better ride than Sansa, than it’s a wonder you’re so hostile to hatching more of these things. Then again, a woman with child probably is comparable to a fire-breathing monster, and not in the good ways._ It took every ounce of self-control not to say this aloud. _Stop acting so casual, you stupid shit!_

“I see,” was what Tyrion said instead, “It must be an incredible experience, touching the sky. Being around these creatures. Riding them. Controlling them. Is it only Rhaegal you ride these days?”

Jon’s eyes flickered at that last part. “No.” His tone was clipped.

Tyrion was seeing red. Fury seemed to overflow.

“So you enjoy a variety of mounts, do you?” Tyrion now felt he’d lost control entirely, “Well, I imagine if a man has one taste, he’ll always want more.”

Jon stopped what he was doing and turned to Tyrion. “I’m a man happy with the mounts I have. Only a fool wastes his time and energy on unnecessary steeds when he already has the best of them. I have better things to fill my time with than random rides when I can get the best quality of them from a creature I trust and know. It’s not just about the thrills, it’s about the bond, and knowing you’ve been deemed worthy of it. But I don’t expect you to understand that. But trust me, Lord Tyrion, I do indeed have the best of companions already, and it does not please me to suffer anyone cheapening that. In fact, the more time goes on, the more I realize how blessed I am, and the less tolerance I have for any tasteless remarks directed at what is mine.”

He stroked Rhaegal’s snout as he said this.

“As if you truly appreciate it!” Tyrion snapped, finally. “You stand there acting like you’re just playing with some average filly, instead of what that thing actually is! You disdain the miracle you have, take it for granted, and only care about what _you_ can get out of it! You don’t care enough to allow more people to participate, to benefit from the incredible things you have. You don’t love it enough to offer the world more! And you stand there and act like it’s nothing, only caring when someone threatens your pride. But it’s not about you! And this isn’t nothing! It’s something that should grow! It’s a miracle!"

Tyrion knew he needed to stop, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Everyone was staring at him in astonishment.

“And yet you, with your long Stark face, your stiff Stark knees, your icy Stark honor, you can’t even bring yourself to be awed by this! That’s a bloody dragon! It’s the king of all beasts! Fire made flesh! The resurrection of everything magical in this world! You have it all right at the tips of your fingers. And yet you can’t feel any awe, any passion, any desire! _What is wrong with you?! Why can’t you care?! Why don’t you appreciate the opportunity you have?! Why can’t you stop and just feel elated by the fire and flight?! Doesn’t any of it matter?! Why can’t it matter to you?! Why can’t it matter enough to the rest of us?! You have so much, so much that is denied to the rest of us, and you can do nothing but act like it’s no big deal, and look down on us for caring about what you have and we are denied! Well, not all of us want to be like you, Prince of Apathy! We’re allowed to want! And we all should be able to be awed by the miracle before us!”_

As he shouted, the prince’s expression and, indeed, the expressions of pretty much everyone, went from pure shock to shock mixed with confusion. And Tyrion couldn’t exactly blame them. The words were coming out of his mouth, and he meant them, but he wasn’t even sure what he was saying, entirely. He wasn’t even sure who he was saying all of this to. Some of what he said was for Jon. Some of it.

“You’re still a bastard. A bastard with everything, but still a bastard. Never forget what you are. Remember?” With that, his words turned into deep, guttural breaths.

And the prince’s eyes became daggers.

“Yes. And I remember what else you said. So we’re almost in the same boat. Almost.” Jon snarled. He walked up close to the Lannister and bent over to eye level, his face inches from Tyrion’s. His voice lowered to a whisper. “I haven’t forgotten, Lannister. Indeed, one of my favorite things to do is to make _my_ wife scream my bastard name. It’s one of her favorite things as well. A joy you have even less chance of knowing than dragonflight. That’s one reason why we’re not in the same situation. The other is, you’re now banished from court, under my orders.”

“I was ordering men from court while you were freezing your peach fuzz off at the Wall, _Boy._ ”

“Days which are well and truly done. Let this be a reminder.”

Jon called the outside guards in. “Have Lord Tyrion escorted to the gates of the Red Keep. Keep him there and order the palace guards to remove his things from the chambers. The servants can help you. I want him out of the city by nightfall.”

  
Without a second look, the Prince of the Targaryen Empire mounted the emerald dragon and took to the air, casting an enormous shadow. Tyrion felt as much a dwarf as he ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at WendyNerdWrites.tumblr.com


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